The Song of the Rain

I am saudadé,
strung together with the tears
Of a lost love song.
I am the mirth
Of children playing with paper boats,
Running wild and free—
Upon muddy fields.

I am the poems you always left unwritten;
I am the sighs,
The last goodbyes,
The longings of April afternoons:
Unkempt apologies and unheard sobs,
Heartbeats as slippery as moss.
I am the gravestone of unsaid words
that you buried deep in your heart.

You hear me—soft on your windowpane —
harsh on your heart.
Torrents down the awnings—
Tenderly splashing, singing
Familiar songs in strange notes, reverberating
through the paperback you seek shelter in.

I am saudadé, the smell of love
The petrichor that brings you back
Letters from the past.
I am the song of Rain—
Listen to me.