Falling. It's what I do best — or perhaps what I do only. The gentle nudges from the cloud above.
Collecting in a desaturated hue of navy, remnants of it, shadows of a world I cannot see yet taste.
I am but a single raindrop, small and alone, yet increasingly aware of the symphony of those joining me.
With a slight rumble, I glance at my neighbors, particles of precipitated poetry poised for their own descent.
Descending through the nebulous like freefalling in a slow motion, witness to the transformation of
a drunken dance. Silent laughter escapes me as I pass by, touching the earth's cheek, a kiss of clarity.
I plunge into the unknown, my form dispersing chaos into symphony — landing softly, changing, merging.
A man with an umbrella, a child sad between droplets, a window pane sheltering warmth.
My story isn't unique, yet I etch it brand new on every surface I kiss. Unique in union, mundane in magnificence.