![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Dec. 31st, 2009 04:01 amThe rain is near.
Bits land on the glass like flies from gray dark, adjust their angle in the fly way. They rest or wander traumatized downhill, like men escaped from battle.
The rain is on us.
Our eyes are the glass and the wet assails them, stings and stains invisibly, stays pooling at the knees.
The rain is in us.
Everything unbraiding in the one direction, down. We lose distinction falling. We cannot even say the world falls with us. What's a world?
The rain is behind us.
It fades into that fading place behind our head, the one we can't turn fast enough to catch. All colors there are both themselves and black.
It's a noise following someone who moves away from us. The fewer drops there are the fewer drops there are, the smaller drops, the farther away.
And then the rain is gone.
We only call "unbearable" what's already been borne.
Bits land on the glass like flies from gray dark, adjust their angle in the fly way. They rest or wander traumatized downhill, like men escaped from battle.
The rain is on us.
Our eyes are the glass and the wet assails them, stings and stains invisibly, stays pooling at the knees.
The rain is in us.
Everything unbraiding in the one direction, down. We lose distinction falling. We cannot even say the world falls with us. What's a world?
The rain is behind us.
It fades into that fading place behind our head, the one we can't turn fast enough to catch. All colors there are both themselves and black.
It's a noise following someone who moves away from us. The fewer drops there are the fewer drops there are, the smaller drops, the farther away.
And then the rain is gone.
We only call "unbearable" what's already been borne.
