Steady rainfall in the park.
I hardly notice the wet gravel
soaking cold, dark spots
into my soul from the knees.

Shifting wind
The tempest is growing, but I want to stay.
If it carries me off at least I'll be spared
the agony of walking away from you.

Water beats down from heaven,
running off my shirt, slicing into skin
slowly breaking my composure until, at last
I become the storm.