Angel's Tears

More maudlin mule puke, for one of the least talented writers on the planet.

“The rain is coming down like angel’s tears.”

Those were the last words she spoke

before she walked out of his life.

And indeed, the rain was falling

with a particular solemnity,

soaking him to the skin

as he watched her drive away.

And he stood in that rain

for hours after her car was out of sight,

heedless of the strengthening storm.

He knew that once he got out of the rain

she would be gone forever.

Like all things, weather and pain

both fade in time.

The storm ended in a few hours,

not so, his pain.

As the skies cleared

he went in to his house,

dried himself and put on clean clothes.

He didn’t speak, he didn’t smile,

he showed no sign of being connected

to anything around him.

Time went on, days merged into weeks,

weeks into months,

but still, his heart ached.

Despite the pain, he goes on,

making motions

of going through his days.

Disconnected.

Except for when it rains.

When the rain begins,

no matter what he is doing,

he makes his way outside.

Once outside,

he stands in the rain,

unmoving, unspeaking,

thinking about that day,

the day

the rain fell like angel’s tears.

Author's Note

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