Rain doesn't ask for permission.
It comes uninvited,
spilling down gutters,
filling in the spaces
you pretended were solid.

It has a way of making everything honest.
The sky opens its throat,
and suddenly,
you remember all the things
you swore you buried.

The house goes quiet.
Even your bones seem to listen.
You watch the window like it might say something
you forgot to hear.

Outside, the earth softens.
Pavement darkens like bruised skin.
And all the noise you carry
becomes background.

They say rain is cleansing,
but they never mention
how it drags everything to the surface first—
the mud, the oil,
the names you only speak
when the room is empty.

You sit there.
Let it fall.
Let it mean something.

Because maybe water knows more than we do.
About weight.
About return.
About how things always come back
softer.
But never the same.