It Rains, Everyday

It rained all night.
You closed your eyes and leaned back,
Pressed your palm against the damp, cold glass
Of the rain-stained window, and hummed
That old tune which you had said you'd forgotten.
Could you see the paper boats, I wonder?
That had been pushed in the overflowing alley
Made of paper which carried a thousand letters
And unspoken words.
The ink would melt away, you know,
And no one would ever be any wiser
Of the shaky hands which made them,
Or the fingers which gently set them afloat.
Don't crush them with your foot tomorrow morning,
Will you?
— As you try to save your trousers from the mud —
They will probably be upside down, or shrunken.
But don't crush them. Who knows,
One of these, could have been for you?
Fitted with a little lantern in the dark,
It could have floated around —
Who knows, one could have been from me?
No one would ever be any wiser.
You know, ages and ages hence,
The rain will still come down
Each night, every night, even if you can't see —
Full of those wispy paper boats of dreams,
And languishing, bittersweet memories.
Don't crush these boats with your shoe, will you? —
For in this city, it rains each day.