Summer and The Rains

A poem on melancholy, depersonalization, and perception

S.P Sacker


Woman standing under the downpour
Taken from

Warmth on my eyelids sinking into my skin,
My fingers start to gently tap on the desk
To a melody forgotten by man: the gentle song of silence.
The breaths feel lacerating but unsharp;
They’re slow and heavy;
And I can only hear the taps and my exhalations.

It’s dark with my eyes closed, but it’s pretty enough for me to smile at its sobriety.
There’s no light, but I can sense a general comfort in its mannerisms;
My shoulders and back are tense, but my chest hasn’t caught on and remains Loose like the clothes encapsulating my body.

I feel foreign to the warmth and the desk and the breaths.
I feel like I’m not really here to perceive them-
Like they walk shallow steps and take short breaths-
And no one really knows that I exist.
Yet somehow, I feel frightened by the greetings of calmness,
Like I’m greeted by chaos and the result of entropy.
Wholly different from what I’m supposed to be seeing,
The summer air quivers imperceptibly.

I feel the same thing while standing in the rain.
It’s blurry, and I can’t see past three feet of my head.
The frigid rain dances on my skin as it lands on my forehead,
Progresses onto my cheeks and travels down my neck-
And from my triceps down my forearms, running across my wrists
And trickling off my fingertips.
It hits like tiny daggers, like cherry blossoms carried by the wind, like a thousand warm embraces,
And it falls and lets go just the same-
Except they’re cold and neglectful this time;
I reminisce and feel melancholy nostalgia for the present;
I want to stay standing in the rain.

I look out into the distance while I gasp for breaths,
Almost panting in exasperation,
And I look into the distance,
Searching for a stranger who’ll watch me if I slip and fall.
I don’t look up- there’s nothing there-
So my gaze is fixed directly below me,
Where the rain hits hard and surrounds bubbles of air
In its harsh demeanor in contacting the unbroken ground.
Almost like percussion-
Like music in my head-
So loud I almost go deaf
In feeling the vibrations
In the rain resounding on the barren roads
And forlorn pavements.

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S.P Sacker

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