Catching raindrops on your spindly, ivory fingers,
holding tears in your hands and behind your tongue,
you can't bring yourself to purge.
No one will pay any mind in the rain;
you are safe within it's wet embrace,
security found in moist skin and puddles of remorse.
Cry for me, my dear.
Let go and become the someone you're ruining your life to avoid.
Be free, go ahead, be impulsive.
Be not happy, but content.
In the rain.
In the middle of the street in the middle of the night,
little trickles of everyone's sacrifices tinkling down the road;
asphalt paved hopes and memories,
weathered down by daylight and forgotten in obscurity.
You tread on the regrets of every single person who ever desired,
who ever failed and lost, who ever was remorseful.
You are special, you are complete with your unfulfilled problems.
Security in insecurity, happiness in the middle of melancholy.
Broken and left alone, drops become torrents.
This isn't so bad, my dear.
No one is strong, no one is resilient.
Humans break and crumble, it's only natural.
You are a million in a million,
reunited with the rest of the world when you admit
you're right, wrong is right, therefore right is wrong.
You are not your losses, you are not your problems.
You are not your mother, you are not your father.
You are who you are when you're alone,
walking in the middle of the street in the middle of the night
catching raindrops.
