the rain

you always loved falling asleep to thunderstorms and downpour while they fought. you preferred the calm approach of the sky weeping to the thump of sobs coming from your pillowcase. the roaring reminded you too much of your father when he started harsh arguments by the dining table, you retreating to your room leaving a full plate of your mother’s cooking behind. he’d come into your room more times than you could count to apologise, but not by saying “i’m sorry” but “stop crying”. it was his way of making up. that’s when you learned that listening to the drizzle whisper little truths into your ear as your puffy cheek lay on the cold windowsill brought you more comfort.

said that this will happen again, and an apology is no promise, and his promise is no promise that he’d keep.

the rain would tell you stories about april showers and midsummer rumbles that would drown out the voice of the monster living on the other bed, drip, drip, drip, drip, count tears instead of sheep, count lessons that are false and imprinted in your mind anyway, like drops on your white coiffure in the spring time. you and the rain made a promise to sway and waltz whenever you’d cross paths, none of you knew that when you dance in wet clay, his limbs are flailing about. none of you realised

not everyone else standing nearby will be pleased to find grey speckles on their trousers.