Eighteen

i hate the rain.
and its endless wetness that seeps into sleep.

its distant bass-hum of thunder, dotted by silent pitter-patter. the tubelights that shine on freshly glazed green leaves. the crunch of hurried heels on sodden roads going home. the blackness of night. the monotony of big hunks of cloud.

i hate its humid quietness that sticks and binds to your skin,
things, memories, people, dreams.

and that distracting smell of loveliness.

i hate the rain.
and i hate it that i don’t sleep – not wanting to miss any of its scantiness.