It is the underside of a raindrop—
the sensation of shrinking
while rushing closer and closer
to the inevitable.
It could be the force
of the blackhole keeping
the entirety of our galaxy
together. Yet, it ends in a blip.
A hand brushes the drop
from a forehead as eyes
gaze to the cloudless sky.
It must be rain—
the clear liquid on your finger
could be nothing else.
But doubt still furrows—
shimmering wrinkles briefly capture
the sun. It is not captive long.
You walk on. A solitary drop
of rain doesn’t matter to meetings.
But it will stay with you—
a tiny splash of presence
as you stare through plate glass
to the cloudless,