I opened for the rain.
My skin against the downpour,
ribs exposed beneath two strangers,
forced into this space.
The mist, the cold,
and the overtime work.

My possessor grips nothing but empathy
for him, partially sheltered,
the rain soaking his back.
Her gaze fixed ahead, his on the ground.
My metal spine sang with the drumming drops,
but it was their silence that hummed.

I know the simple truth:
a gesture, a brief moment of shelter.
But I feel another story forming,
one whispered between coffee cups,
one that lingers, unseen.

I am not a witness to this kindness,
but a prop in the scene.
And the script is being written
with every head that turns,
by every person who sees us,
and forgets the rain.