Rain

He always loved
the pattern raindrops made
after hitting his tiny, round bedroom glass
-- of which barely let any light in
during summertime.
He loved the sound and splash
at the hitting instant.
He loved how determined,
and blunt,
and consistent the rain was.
He loved the cold
creeping up clandestinely through his biceps --
conquering each cell
on the conquest to capture the heart;
also admiring how his body
reacted spastically:
stuffing and squashing and quelling inside,
creating a wave of heat and
fighting against the cold.
He just loved sitting there,
in that little, calm room, middle of
the life and razzle and dazzle.

And although he couldn't cry,
it was not because he did not want to.
(He would cry for not being able to cry,
if weeping was an option.)
He loved how the sky did that for him,
letting out all the emotions, smothering and soaking
his pathetic soul.