Rainlight

The city breathes slower in the rain.
Drops stitch silver threads across windowpanes,
and the pavement, dark and slick, reflects the world in fragments—
a streetlamp here, a passing car,
the silhouette of a tree swaying gently like it remembers something.

The air tastes clean now,
as if it has rinsed away the day’s noise and dust.
Somewhere nearby, water trickles along the curb,
carrying whispered secrets past shoes and shadows.

You stand still.
Not cold.
Not alone.

There’s comfort in the hush,
in the rhythm of the drizzle,
in the glowing softness of red brake lights and yellow windows
and the perfume of rain-soaked concrete and damp bark.

It’s a quiet that doesn’t feel empty.
It feels like the city is listening.
Like the night has uncurled around you,
and for once, everything fits.

by Onnaya