Flowers in the Rain

A walk through the park, listening to flowers pleading for rain. 
Oh, please let it rain today.
My soil is so thirsty, like my soul in a way.

You've come to me with reproaches
And anger at my longing for your attention rolls through your mood like thunder behind the lightning bolt.

I have a name. You once whispered it just to hear it spoken. You heard it in the drops of splashing water falling in the pool where you walked barefoot, in the park, in June, in sunglasses too big for your face.

You've come to me with reproaches and your exasperation at my need for connection rolls across the sky of your eyes like storm clouds, dark and swollen with rain, pain.

I have a soul. Lost at sea, or on that horse with no name, it is all I have, and it holds the words and hopes and thoughts of who and where and what I wanted this to be, while your faded slips of paper remain in a jar, in a box, in the bottom of a closet.

You've come to me with reproaches for not being able to let go, so addicted, gloomy and creepy, using your words against you, as I whither away.
It'll be over soon.

Later, the storm comes. Lightning bolts fill the sky. Rain pours out of tempestuous clouds, soaking my soil.
Nourishing, cleansing, relenting, repenting

You don't come to me now. You've given all you could, and couldn't take anymore. My flowers have dried, withered and died.
And with them, all that troubled you.

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