Midnight Rain on Glass

Each drop finds its own path, a thousand conversations the window can't answer.

I watch from the dark— how they gather, dissolve, reform into something that tastes like meaning.

The city hums beneath, indifferent to my wondering, but here, in this small thing, this percussion, this patience— something insists on speaking.

Silence wrapped in sound, the night that knows my name and doesn't call it out.