A Window in the Rain

I sat beside the window pane,

Where raindrops raced like children late for school,

And every drop became a voice,

Telling stories only silence could interpret.

Gray skies sagged with swollen clouds,

Low enough to touch if I dared to open the glass,

But I didn’t.

I stayed inside. I always did.

The street below blurred in watercolor strokes,

Umbrellas bobbing like drifting thoughts—

Some black, some red, one yellow like a stubborn sun

Trying to shine through a storm it couldn’t stop.

I counted the seconds between thunder and breath,

Tried to find rhythm in nature’s hush,

In the tap-tap-tap of water fingers

Drumming their lullaby against the ledge.

The window fogged with warmth,

My breath a ghost trying to draw a memory—

One I couldn’t quite place.

A song half-remembered. A face long gone.

Someone once said rain cleanses,

But I think it reminds.

Of goodbyes we didn’t say right.

Of moments we wanted to pause but couldn’t.

I watched it fall for hours,

Let it soak into the crevices of old thoughts,

Let it stir the sediment at the bottom of stillness.

Let it speak, because I was too tired to.

No thunder cracked the world in two,

No lightning offered divine reply.

Just a window and the rain.

Just me.

And that was enough.

Sometimes, I think windows are meant

Not to keep the world out,

But to keep us from forgetting

That it’s still out there.

Even in rain.