The Ink Beneath the Rain

 

The rain remembered me—

it poured like a vow from forgotten gods,

drenching the corridor between what was

and what I no longer name.

A temple stood where breath once labored,

echoing with iron hymns

and the ghost-slick scent of women’s fire.

I entered through memory’s mouth,

dripping with undone time.

There—

a figure with eyes of obsidian thread

whispered through needles and smoke.

He drew truth from skin,

etching meaning into flesh

already mapped with silence.

But the clock broke,

its hands flailed like drowning wings.

I was late for something fragile.

A tether pulled—

not love,

but responsibility cloaked in urgency.

And then

the shadow stepped through the veil,

bearing a face I swore to forget.

Not him—

but what he meant.

My pulse fled the rain.

And still the ink bledt.