The sound of the rain washes me away.

It takes me back to an unknown place.

To a time that I can not quite put my finger on.

It is more of a feeling than a memory,

a sort of nostalgia for something I have lost.

Something long forgotten.

Rain on windows always does this to me.

Sometimes I think that if I stare long enough at the glass,

that if I count enough straggly raindrops running down towards the sill,

I will remember what it is.

But I never do.

I try to let the rhythm of the rain hypnotise me

into releasing the uncried tear that I know is there.

But I am always just left with the same slight melancholy,

the same refreshing, inspiring sadness.

If you have ever cried next to a window in a rainstorm

then you probably understand the sympathy of rain.

Like dew crystals on tufty cemetery grass.

I think that’s why I like caravans.

I like tents too.

But the sound of rain on tents leaves me longing for a window.

For something to take me a step closer to my buried memories.

For something that will do my crying for me.

Soon to be published in Volume Two of Incandescent;  http://www.incandescentpoetry.com/