Rain

One cold Saturday night,
She sat comfortably,
With her warm coffee,
Surrounded by deep, but patient, red walls,
People hastily walking to their destinations,
Explaining themselves loudly on their phones,
Rich mahogany sofas,
Looking intriguingly back at her,
Waiting to possess her listless being.

She, seated on a tall chair near the foggy, wet windows,
Didn’t acknowledge the notion of the sofas,
Didn’t hear the hurrying footsteps go by,
Didn’t hear the Starbucks employee,
Serving drinks with unusually long names,
Didn’t hear something so simple as tea,
Being called a ‘tall-non-fat-extra-hot-chai-tea-latte-for-Jen.’

All she heard,
Was the rain.
The innocent rain drops making their way down to Earth,
She enjoyed witnessing this grounding ceremony,
And would often observe,
From her own windowsill in her room.

As she watched the heavenly crystals make their way down,
She wondered, if,
In a far away place,
Someone was witnessing the same magic,
If someone far away,
Was trying to overlook the stubborn fog,
And see the rain clouds persistently block the moon,
If someone far away,
Noticed how beautifully the wet leaves glistened,
While asleep.

Hours had passed,
Before she realized she herself wanted to sleep,
And rest her worn out body,
Wishing only to be woken,
By his deep soothing voice,
Telling her how wonderful she sounds in the morning,
Telling her to just stay in bed,
Telling her how he missed her,
But, alas, her wish,
Would only be a wish,
For he himself was a raindrop,
That would never fall upon on her ground...