For a girl who loved rainA Poem by William Liston
a bit different from my usual style
I used to think there was a certain look to everyone ―
the athlete with giant pectorals,
the nerd with thick glasses and a skinny frame,
the weirdo with crazy blue hair and peach eyebrows.
But you ...
you didn't fit my stereotype.
I always envisioned the depressed
as ones with mopey facial expressions,
with dark blue shades written over their frowns
and metal lungs over their hearts.
But you ...
you weren't blue;
you were of the brightest orange.
That was your favorite color,
or at least, I think it was.
I faintly remember you telling me that
on a day I was too angry to listen.
You also told me
everyone needs at least one hug a day.
I still remember how you'd hug me,
your arms wrapped tightly around my waist
for 15 seconds or so.
You'd talk for hours about your philosophy of life.
I'd listen occasionally and would think you were delusional.
You believed that rain could cry
and felt sorry it never got the praise it deserved.
I'd usually laugh at you,
but still, you spoke and smiled.
You had a pleasant voice, though.
It was raspy with a dry, high-pitched sound,
almost like a toddler with a sore throat.
It grew on me the more I heard it.
One day, you were more distressed than usual
and told me you were sad for no apparent reason.
I pretended to ignore you.
You'd always listen to my problems, though;
at least, you were willing to.
I never told you any of my emotions
because I never understood them;
they lingered somewhere in my heart,
just below my understanding
and just above my tolerance for pain.
You had a high tolerance for pain.
Sometimes, you'd talk about
how your mother abused you
and how your brother raped you daily.
Your talks got sadder ...
I think you even shed a tear once.
you didn't talk.
You didn't smile.
I'm not even sure if you had a heart that day,
and if you did,
it was probably tugging at sorrow
heavier than lead.
The last moment you saw me that day,
you said, without a trace of emotion,
I wanted to hug you,
but, instead, just ignored you and walked back home.
The next day, I didn't see you,
just a few people's tears at school
as they talked about your suicide.
I didn't care ...
you wanted to die, else you wouldn't have killed yourself.
Why would I miss you, your smile, or your voice?
You were an idiot anyway,
with your delusional fantasies.
Walking back to my house,
I saw gray clouds forming in the sky.
I remembered that you liked rain,
especially at night when it would lull you to sleep.
Minutes later, a single drop of rain
landed on my cheek.
"It probably misses you," I thought.
The rain then began to downpour.
That's when I thought of you,
how you'd talk about rain
and how it would make you smile,
even on days you wanted to shed tears.
Until then, I never knew rain could cry,
nor could I appreciate the melody in its sound
or the soft look of its specks
gleaming in the sun.
I was blind to such subtleties.
Perhaps I'd been too cold to notice.
© 2017 William Liston
AboutI am 16 years old and I enjoy writing poems. For me, writing is a passion because I've always treasured the power of words. Some of my influences include Edgar Allan Poe, Paul Laurence Dunbar, Robert .. more..
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