Rain That Knows Me
Walk where the rain reads your edges—and returns you lighter.
Rain That Knows Me
It starts before the forecast—
a cool hand on the forehead
of the day.
*
First drop finds the wrist,
remembers my pulse,
keeps time.
*
I don’t open an umbrella.
I let the sky read me—
ink lifting from an old page,
letters loosening into weather.
*
The street darkens kindly.
Puddles stitch mirrors
at my feet; in each one
I am a softer outline.
*
You taught me once
to breathe with thunder,
to let the count between flash and boom
become a bridge.
I still cross it.
*
Some showers are blunt,
all drum and dare.
This one is fluent—
names my tired by name,
Rinse the grit off.
*
I walk until the coat gives up,
until my pockets are small lakes
with coins asleep at the bottom—
wishes that chose rest.
*
Behind a window, someone laughs.
It beads on the glass and stays—
happier than water
than as sound.
*
I listen for the click inside—
that latch releasing
When sorrow has had enough speech.
The rain answers in syllables
My shoulders can translate.
*
By the time the bus arrives,
The world is all steam and truce.
I board it soaked and certain,
leaving footprints that evaporate
into a rumor of light.
*
When the sun shoulders through,
I’m not new, exactly—
just less held by what held me,
as if the weather knows my door code
and lets itself out gently.
About the Creator
Milan Milic
Hi, I’m Milan. I write about love, fear, money, and everything in between — wherever inspiration goes. My brain doesn’t stick to one genre.
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Comments (1)
There’s such exquisite restraint in this poem a quiet lyricism that feels like weather itself, unfolding rather than being written. The rain here isn’t simply meteorological; it’s intimate, remembering, almost sentient. I love how it shifts from the sensory (“first drop finds the wrist”) to the spiritual (“the rain answers in syllables / my shoulders can translate”) without losing its calm precision.