S t a c c a t o

She wrote.
Not on love,
But on the idea

That something intimate,
Something almost sensual,
Came from the sky when it rained.

It wasn’t just the water
For beaches are boastful,
And rivers are rampant,
And oceans are dense.

But it is the pattern,
The droplets,
Beating like drums in  s t a c c a t o.
    .
 .
      . 
.
 .
Reminding our eyes,
Our ears,
That this won’t last forever.

Like a kiss.

It’s emotional,
Watching the world cry externally.
Yet comforting,
Knowing that something much larger than us,
Questions the state of things too.

The state of its place. 
.
     .

So what can be said about the raindrops that fall into water,
And the ones that fall to the ground?
What can be said for the raindrops that land
On a bedroom window,
On a wilting petal,
On Your tongue? 

Their impact,
While sometimes invisible 
And typically forgotten,

Will have had you.
At least for a moment in time  .
.

      .