It fell—
Not with thunder,
Not with spectacle.
Just a whispering collapse
Of sky
Against soil.
And no one watched.
No windows lit.
No child’s hand pressed to the glass.
No lovers beneath umbrellas
Pretending time could be paused
Between drops.
The rain
Was not for harvest.
Not for thirst.
Not for bloom.
It was mourning,
Disguised as weather.
Somewhere,
A girl stopped waiting.
Somewhere,
A letter arrived too late.
Somewhere,
A name was spoken
Like it still meant something—
But only to the speaker.
And the sky,
Poor beast,
Felt it all.
You think the clouds are cold?
You think the wind is careless?
But what if the rain fell
Because
The world needed weeping
And had forgotten how?
There was no storm.
Only ache.
No lightning.
Only memory.
Each drop
A word
Never said.
Each splash
A touch
Never given.
When no one looked,
The sky became
What grief looks like
When no one asks
If you’re alright.
They say rain is cleansing—
But that night,
It only blurred
What the world refused to name.
A dog waited on the porch
Long after the door stayed shut.
 A grave was visited
By no one
But the moss.
A poem was finished
By someone
Who never intended to live
Long enough to write it.
And the rain
Did what it could.
Fell.
Quietly.
Utterly.
Beautifully—
As if saying:
I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it.
I’m sorry no one noticed.
I’m sorry it mattered.
And still — went unseen.
Epilogue —
You ask why it rains
When no one is watching.
But perhaps that’s the only time
It truly dares
To fall.

.    .    .