A River Dies Of Thirst

I stepped out into the downpour and felt the touch of rain, always so gently brutal. What will she inflict on my weary body today? 

I bow my head awaiting my fate as I bring myself further into her, catching a glimpse of myself reflected in a puddle nearby, my face as shrivelled as the umbrella I happened to have left behind. 

She seemed particularly enraged today for when I closed my eyes expecting a kiss, she pummeled down on my hunched frame, her very own form of corporal punishment to pay for my shortcomings that day. 

Cold water trickled past my spine as if to remind me of my powerlessness in the face of her wrath yet I couldn’t bring myself to hate her - to fall is all she knows. 

She is a constant, a hostage of Earth itself, forever doomed to cry, to pour herself out for the whole world to witness regardless of whether it is her intention to cause harm or otherwise. 

Yet, despite all her complexities, when she is absent I miss her and crave her tears to water my soul once more, for even a river can ultimately die of thirst.