It was raining on the Friday that we met.
When you walked past me.
When I fancied being hurt by it.
It was a gentle kind of rain…
The kind that pitterpatters on a tin roof.

It was raining that same Friday that we sat together.
When you called me Shiela.
When I asked you to promise me you’d devastate me.
It turned into a thicker kind of rain…
The kind that reminds you of a thousand little hearts beating.

It was raining that Saturday.
When you crushed me in your embrace.
When I turned myself into a straw house.
It was a steady kind of rain…
The kind that anchors a love song like a drone.

It was raining that Sunday.
When you tied my hands behind me.
When I was soaking in vulnerability.
It was a soft kind of rain…
The kind that wells out of your eyes as tears.

It was raining that Monday.
When you asked me to forget I met you.
When I began to erode in confusion.
It was a violent kind of rain…
The kind that drowns your screams.

I hope it rains on Friday.
When you become a vague memory.
When I am left like the mud after a great flood.
I hope it is an invisible kind of rain…
The kind that you can walk through, as if it weren’t raining.

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