The black rain
beats against my numbing skin.
It feels of frostbite with no venom,
of glass with no rough edges.
It feels of days spent in front of my plate of food
three years ago
where I could taste the metallic flavour of a nuzzle
and my own blood.
It feels of the days spent in my room
two years ago
where the bedsheets would call my name and reach for me
as soon as I kissed them good-bye.
It feels of the days spent on the bus
one year ago
where I watched the passing twinkling streets
and wished for a car to come and claim me.
It feels of the days of hollowness
these days
where I realize I have not found cover from the rain.
I have only stopped feeling it drench me in pitch black.