Blue

Roll a trail on the windowpane glass to become a condensated memory fallen from the rainstorm. There are a million glossy specks like you. Your depression alone is not enough to fill the lakebeds nor the silt puddles. It is a single drop, crystallized in a matrix of intrusive thoughts. One ruffle on the damp tawny back of a chickadee, one slickening of algal moss on the rocks by your building, one unique liquid melancholy subject to the committal planning of your consciousness. One meeting in the infinite backrooms of human emotions. The board members of your hyperfocus are in present session with sadness. And thus it rains; barometric weather pressure weighs on your forehead, damp gathers in the corners of your eyes, your cheeks garnish the same shine as your rooftop shingles; thus you rain. And raindrops inside or out contribute nothing but the catharsis of their intended effect. There is no handhold in a pour of mist or showers but the feeling of being drenched: rain’s blue intent is that chill, wet idea that collects in your creases, the confirmation as your mental illness coalesces into realistic water.