#365DaysOfWriting – Day 135

Oh monsoon my sweet child.

What makes you weep so, dear cloud?

I know October is here, and your friend’s time is almost up.

This is your idea of a last hurrah?

Not that I’m complaining. Your last visit was as short as a bald man’s in a salon.

Umbrellas pop up like colourful mushrooms in the wild. It must seem so pretty to you up there, I’m sure.

So that’s it! You like the pretty umbrellas. And you’re soaking in every visual treat before you go.

Patterns in droplets

But what of us, who travel in gilded cages and live in concrete jungles? The wielders of the mushroom umbrellas?

We find patterns in droplets. Or at least try to.

Every droplet is unique, like a snowflake. To the human eye.

And every droplet on our eye, makes it look like we cry. Just like you, dear cloud.

Because we want you to stay. And we want you to go. But what we really want from you, we don’t know.

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