Archive of Raindrop Maps

On the window, rain draws a city no atlas has dared to publish; streets braided out of glass, one small harbor where the light lands.

I press my palm to the pane— my hand a warm continent— and the droplets reroute, finding new borders in my heat.

Down below, umbrellas flower and fold like shy origami; their shadows drift across asphalt as if the ground were water remembering waves.

Night arrives with a soft ledger, counting the day in silver grains; I watch the last bead hesitate, then roll into the dark, a star unmade.