REWRITE: Tapping

It does not rain clean here
like it does on the roof of my mind:
It only taps lightly on my car,
the scattered showers of a landlocked city.
It drizzles, uneasily, against the drawn windows,
muddy streaks in its wake.

It does not resound like the torrents
of my memory, the cold rivulets
dripping from my clothes
chilling through my hair
the numb outline of my skull.

When it falls here, it ceases—
there is no patter to pitter
me my soft way through the night.

I gained my feet and inches in a city that rained;
in my own time I need return,
lest the hinges on that door rust—
oh, the rain tapping in your ears
the rain tapping on your skin.


original here