I could sing

because rain is poetry

and sometimes I get my feet wet

with words.

If I could reach out my hand

and touch a feeling,

perhaps I would know the right words

for this one immense

rain shower of the soul

which seems to have overtaken me

and swept me up

in sudden downpours.

I write on paper napkins

and old notebooks

which still contain your old sentiments,

and letters flow

 in paragraphs of motion

down the wavering windowpanes

of your green green eyes.

And yet,

the feeling of emptiness inside me

feels somehow bigger than

I appear from the outside,

and all of this rain crowds

the corners which used to be filled

with you,

even as I empty myself

of all the words

which could ever name you.

I could sing, yes,

because poetry is motion,

and sometimes I feel like the rain

dripping down the window.

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