She stopped humming after the rain
Because it stopped falling on her.
The rain didn’t feel the same when it touched her skin.
It didn’t fall from heaven, and it didn’t make her fall in love.
She stopped humming after the rain because it no longer sang that song.
She stopped because it had changed—there were once heavy drops that would drown her.
Now they were light and wouldn’t even dampen her skin.
She stopped humming after the rain because it had changed; it had lost its touch.
It felt as if it had fallen for another’s love.
The rain no longer felt like it was for her,
But for the presence of not wanting to fall onto a road.
She stopped humming after the rain because when it called her by name,
It didn’t ring the same way.
She stopped humming because it didn’t even fall.
But she still prayed every day for the rain to fall.
She didn’t hum, but she did cry.
She didn’t say “I wish you were here,” but she felt like she had died.
She didn’t notice the sign that was put up,
But it said everything that was to come.
She stopped humming after the rain
Because the rain didn’t even bother to show up to tell her it’s okay.
It sang a different tune—one she didn’t know.
She stopped humming because
The rain didn’t fall.