It is raining at midnight.

Again.

I listen to the quiet hum of the wind

over the repetitive sound of raindrops

hitting my window.

Time and time again

I let the rain shape my soul

like a sculpture waiting to be finished.

And I think to myself

that if i were shaped by the rays of the sun

it would not be raining inside my heart as well.

It is raining at midnight,

again,

and I am merely a watercolour portrait

dissolving slowly,

seeping into the cracks in the pavement.

Later, when the downpour stops,

All that is left of me is

petrichor tears.