separate from the rain

Today:
it is raining
and the rain is my
teacher,
my soothsayer,
and my mind is just
the rain falling
over and over,
veiling a figure.

Really:
the rain is a perfect nothing to me,
and to my body it coerces away
the nervous memory,
the wet sensitivities,
it consoles the past, it splashes alongside
those splashes I made
from failing.

I listen:
ironic applause,
incessant clapping meant for 
me, who wants so much
but remits, for a preference 
in
staying dry.

Humming: 
the rain, and
my body's frail,
humming like a bird
whose heart is still
absently humming its
wet feathers 'til
they fly.

It rains:
outside, and in here
is a song, and the two would 
bond, but beads fleet
the skin, over and under,
knowing that if they did
come together, 
if they did
touch,
the figure would melt,
my world would flood.