Waiting brings back childhood rainy days,

In suspense for the drip-drop,

The plop of a droplet glimmering bright,

Dangling off my tiny fingers,

How close freedom was as a child,

So gently clinging to my smooth hands,

I peered at the dripping diamond,

Quite patiently awaiting a fall,

A lake of shimmering beauty on my tips,

Akin to those days in a gloomy kitchen,

Shadows gracing the walls within rainfall,

I am still waiting then and today,

For the droplet inside of me to fall,

This peace feels too temporary,

To easy to soak myself in like temptation,

Like my mother's cautionary proverbs,

The goodness within me feels unwholesome,

A hole has been carved through my love,

I am left to await such terrible calamities,

Yet all this soft nothingness reminds me of,

Is kneeling on dry tiles as a child,

Waiting for a raindrop to fall off my finger,

Anticipation bubbling within my guts,

Morally patient and well-rehearsed,

Yet ever so full of childish giddiness,

Absorbing the sight of a glittering gem,

And watching it fall,

Splashing against the tiles until it is dead,

Then I am calm again,

It is only a damp tile and I,

A tiny spark,

A blob to be scrubbed,

A few seconds well wasted,

As I rest my head on the cracked tiles,

Wondering why my suspense was great,

Over a mere droplet leaving my body,

Letting go of my fingerprints,

It felt like such danger in my heart and on my fingertip,

Yet once the moment passed,

It was only a raindrop.