Everytime I cry, it rains.
The city is flooding.
A telling of the frequency of my tears.
When I cast my face up to the sky,
It is hard to tell what is running down my face.
Lightening strikes,
And I stand taller, reaching.
I stand in the street,
And the water runs warm over my feet.
A black cloud hovers over my house.
A reminder of the past.
Rain coats my skin, hair and clothes.
Droplets race each other down my back.
In this quiet moment, I wonder what would happen
If I never stopped crying.
Would the rain never cease?
Then something harsher than my self loathing surfaces.
Guilt.
What if my crying brought about
Biblical type flooding?
Forty days and forty nights of rain.
Drowning on my grief.
Drowning the world.
I cry harder, caught in a bitter cycle.
A dove stirs and coos from a tree overhead.
I smile at the irony.
Wiping my eyes on my soaked sleeve,
I turn away from the rain.
With drying eyes, I look over my shoulder.
The rain has stopped.
Sun shines through a break in the clouds.
A populace silently prays for clogged tear ducts.