Rain chasers,
how I've known them.

They smell rain from a far distance,
watch the clouds in precise anticipation,
catch the first drop and raise to their lips,
and it either turns sour or sweet.

When they know the rain will go foul,
they tell themselves to make another round,
to seek more rain, more rain, and more rain,
until they lose their conscience and become vain.

When they know the rain will be sweet,
they do their best to hold on to it,
knowing it will not stay forever,
but rain chasers despise the laws of nature.

Once I joined their force and began the game,
and I found my first sweet of rain.
I tried to preserve it, like all the chasers,
then it was gone, like sweet rain always was.

Many raindrops have touched my lips ever since that day.
Some sweet, some sour, yet they never stayed.
And somehow it is still quite hard to forget
how I felt after that one left.