We are the rain on our skin,
Falling upon us as droplets with soft splatters and cries.
We are the words of books we read,
Telling tales of adventure, of action, of girls, and of guys.
We are the paths we walk on,
In sunny weather, under cloudy skies.
We are the music that enters our ears,
So melodious we could see it if we closed our eyes.
And as the rain alters our memories,
The words, our perspectives,
Does it not occur to you,
That we may become a part of them too?
Perhaps that cool drop of water you felt that day,
Found you once earlier, when it had gone astray,
Remembering the signature of your skin,
Reaching instinctively for your DNA.
You may find something familiar about those words,
As you read them, something inside of you may stir,
For it seems that they describe you perfectly,
More so than before, comforting, less terse.
The rain upon our skin is us,
The fingertips we felt it with forever imprinted upon its atomic configuration.
The words of books we read are us,
Changing as we use them in conversation.
The paths we walk on are us,
Every step making contributing to their evolution.
The music that enters our ears is us,
On each play receiving new interpretations.
Perhaps one day we may meet, converge,
On no man’s land,
On middle ground.