Clouds and Rain.

I want to go running

in the rain.

Just sitting here

hearing the gentle drops

isn't nearly enough excitement.

Watching the blacktop

give way

to every tiny touch -

that's hardly enough,

either.

I want the secrets

hidden in the raindrops

to know who hurt them

badly enough that they're

always kissing.

If the clouds above

are monstrous beings

or just weep for what

they are forced to do.

Wouldn't you wonder, too?

What's above that can't be fixed

and what's below that must be kissed?

Twined and twisting

euphemisms

for a peculiar sensation

I don't have words to catch

yet.

I think the rain knows

I suspect something;

droplets kissing ever lighter

on the blacktop

as if aware of the voyeur

peering cautiously out at them

only the boldest

still falling -

as others abandon course

but the clouds above

are still gloomsome

and ratted, frayed on the edges

letting lighter, more frivolous clouds

above look through.