It’s Not About the Rain When I see your stoic face All I wish to do Is ask How did it feel To walk out in the rain? But that would just lead To pretenses That I never wanted to start But glaze over. We could talk about The weather That I could care less for And we could Discuss The past, our childhood That never quite crossed paths And we’d never step away From this pretense That was started With one question, How did the rain feel? And really, It was never about the rain, But of how your eyes Glower When I stare at you And I do admit I look at you, I wonder about what could be And where We would end up If one day, I asked you, How did the rain feel On your skin? &velajune I always end up wondering about the things that could have happened which is worse than the questions that begin with “what if” because it means that I’m totally and utterly stuck on the past. But that’s just it, isn’t it? So much of our regrets come from what we didn’t do and so little from the things that we did do. I recently stumbled upon a great quote on a favorite writer’s tumblr. It says, “I am a collection of dismantled almosts,” which was said by Anne Sexton, from A Self-Portrait In Letters. And don’t you think that’s the problem? We spend so much of our time planning and paving a path that we may never even walk on only to realize we’d missed out on the now? And that in the end, that paved path is just one of those almosts that we missed out on too? I just think, I’ve missed out on life and the excitement of it when I was younger. I was so busy planning my future that I forgot to live in the present and here I am, not on the path that I had earlier paved for myself. When I think about the wasted time and the useless effort, I can’t help but think, what else did I focus on that really didn’t need me? In the poem, I talk about the rain that doesn’t really matter. It’s about him again, Sunday boy. There was this one time back in my middle school years, my family had gone to church (and my brother was still young and not as decided as he is now about religion/ his beliefs) where after church it was raining. It was raining badly and my parents had rushed us to the car. And he was there, across the street, in his Sunday clothes getting soaked. At the time, I seriously really wanted to ask what the hell he was doing, but I didn’t because the now wasn’t so different from the then. We lived two separate worlds and I feared crossing the line. And you know, I just keep thinking, if I was given the chance, I think I’d cross that line now just to ask him how the rain felt against his skin.