Quiet flood

The rain, never expected and which never lasts, still did make the roads glisten.

There's something in the rain, some wispy, vaporous quality, that makes the world surreal and that demands attention, though in its unassuming and so not immediately recognisable way, on the things it falls upon. It is like a trance a trance a trance. It's the same elusive something, lulling and marvelous, from which grows stuff in the air. Stuff about things unspoken, the stuff that I want to say to you but cannot. Stuff that carries that potent invisible current into the atmosphere, up, around and in between us, the stuff that, even if I did say, would not change a thing.

I cannot stop this unsaid tide, nor the root from which it stems, nor feeling those things unspoken, nor the dark knowledge that things will always stay the same.

And the rain, ah, I wished rain never stopped.

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She said: Don't wanna lose ya, don't even own ya...