This rain, this rain, falls on everything,
Like you, a thousand of you, falling on one of me.
If you were my imagination, or “muse” as they call it,
I would have run you out when I ran out of you.
But the broken wine glass, the drops of blood,
Yes, they were red, like your lips I miss,
That slurped one and spit out the other,
That is not imagination,
Nor a stupid muse (gosh I hate that word).
So come to me again, like a front that you were
Give me a chance, to be your fat raindrop again.
Let us soak ourselves unfettered
And make our remaining days, ours.
Featured image: Two men on a sloping road in the rain—by Hiroshige via Wikiart.org.
