The Language of Water

Rain speaks in droplets, each one a small eternity tapping morse code against the window— dots and dashes of becoming, the world learning to dissolve.

In the dark, I listen to the gutters sing, that old familiar ache of water finding its way down, through the cracks we've pretended weren't there, through the hairline fractures in everything we've built.

There is no hurry in this falling. The sky has surrendered its burden gently, turning stone to river, dust to moss, teaching us that endings are just the body's way of making room.

Morning will come pale and washed clean, and we will forget we heard anything at all— how the rain said: *let go, let go, let go* in the language of all things that flow.