Rain

I am lost in the boil of the clouds and the rain and the steam rising off the streets. I'm soaked right through to the skin and my hands are so cold I can't move my fingers. I am alive. The path through the trees bears the scent of decay. Like a home or an old pair of jeans or the skin of a lover, I take for granted that I'll always find comfort there. I close my eyes and tread as if my feet will know the steps they've stepped before.
Halfway across the bridge, I stop and look out. The water level has risen. The river is flowing. Strange memories dance below the glassy surface, only to be whisked away and smashed onto the riverbed on the other side of the dam, rushing and tumbling as they try to rearrange themselves. They disappear behind leaning branches long before any semblance of coherence has been reached. Still, the water goes. Goes and goes like it knows where it's headed. Like something gigantic and fucking inevitable, like a hanged man, or something fated, it moves.
Sometimes, I think there's so much water this whole town is going to sink. Puddles reach up, up, and ankle-deep over the cracking pavement. The stormwater drains overflow, and still the rain comes.

Soon, it would seem, everything is going to fall down.