raindrops

i like to follow the path of raindrops down the window with my fingertips,

and the math is obvious, the geometry and patterns,

but i only just heard the music --

it drips down pianissimo and i remember playing mozart, i was so uncomfortable,

praised for this beauty i didn't understand.

i was only eight years old, i played ariettas and ecossaises,

people stared at me and i stared at them;

i never knew what to say.

i liked the verses in fortissimo, where i could stomp on the pedals

and play out my bitterness.

they put things under my fingertips and i played them,

i hugged myself closer and i hated it.

i play like a shell of a person now, of course,

barely able to read music, too ashamed to even capitalize my pronouns.

i don't listen to music and i was stoned through calculus but i like patterns,

i like rhythms and cadence, the way i could reach my hand out through my window,

and i think i could predict each drop of rain.