angels

he was always told raindrops were the tears of angels,

so he closed the blinds on grey days

and locked the doors

and cried with them.

Two years later

It is six in the morning and he is waiting for the bus,

watching purple skies churn overhead.

A teardrop slides down the back of his hand

and he presses warm lips to it

expecting the bitterness of grief.

Instead he finds the fragile sweetness of fading summer,

blooming on his tounge for a moment before it is gone.

The drops are coming faster now

and he watches as the world fades to smears of paint on a canvas,

flashes of blue and pink and violet.

Rain pounds accross the concrete

and he is drowning, breathing in water,

shaking as the rain settles in his bones.

He drops to his knees and screams towards the sky,

raw and broken and vulnerable.

It ends a moment later,

the sky a crystal blue.

In the center of a silent city he sits on wet pavement,

breathing air that smells like honeysuckle and petrichor.

He runs a hand accross the cracked pavement,

feeling every ripple as if for the first time,

born again as the sun continues to climb skyward.

He supposes raindrops may be the tears of angels

but they are tears of joy.