Death of innocence

I don't know how to describe this poem.

I used to like the rain.
Even just the sound of it washed my soul clean.
When I was younger I could feel the wind with my heart.
It was blowing through me. Stirring me.
Flooding my I am.
My heart is a smoker's tongue polluted slowly by toxic time.
It spelt upon my heart, corroding it away.
Noxious maturity smoked up, choking my center.
Huffing to death my heart cells.
When I reminisces, I elapse into the past and feel it again.
Warm and electrifying.
Filling and comforting.
I love these old echos.
Emotional fingerprints of an illusion we call time.
As much a phantom as now, only blurrier.
As much a phantom as me, only fuller.
The rain can't wash what isn't there.