I no longer dance
under a raincloud of poems
but if you let me,
I’ll pull you
under every tiny bit
of cloud I find
and we can dance under them;
our sadness,
condensing into raindrops —
our façade,
melting with the petrichor —
as if a downpour of words
will wash away
the bruises and scars
and baptize our soul anew.

a clean slate;

like the soil after the storm,

like leaf patterns that
know happiness

like a summer day,
reborn.