Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain

I’d like to say I’m sorry, but I won’t.

I think maybe the rain is talking to me. The one day I forget my umbrella, and it’s pouring, maybe I’ve gone crazy. Because the rain is trying to talk to me, but I can’t hear it because I’m walking down Tenth Avenue wiping water out of my eyes while my shoes kick up mud, my sundress gets soaked, and truck drivers scream cat calls as they drift slowly uptown.

Stop screaming at me, I want to yell back. I’m trying to listen to the fucking rain.


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