Don’t you feel jealous when they touch me like that?
When they feel my skin and wet it like that?
Doesn’t it hurt you to know that I revel in their sound and that your voice, in the song of the raindrops, dies out?
Do they mock you when I am theirs?
They do that to me…
I hate then when they feel your lips
I hate them charting their ways into your being
They kill me when they drown my sound;
They burn me when they touch you when I am not around.
Raindrops on my window panes live like me
One drop at a time, one moment it is
One moment they are born they fall and then die
They are no tear drops, no.
No children of desire they are; No wanting or need.
They are the result of a game played; of a connived history.
photo courtsey : ad-infinitum