Getting Soaked

The rain came down and I didn't run.

Just stood there, let it soak me through,

my clothes heavy and wet, the street gone,

water in my mouth, in my hair, in view

of nothing but the curtain of it falling.

I could have ducked into a doorway,

could have found shelter, but something

kept me standing there, not away

from the storm but in it, choosing

to let it have me, to be soaked,

to taste the rain, to feel it using

my body as a place to break.

The water dripped from my hands.

My shoes were ruined. My hair

stuck to my face, and where I stand

now, I'm still wet, still there,

in that moment of standing still

while everything else ran,

choosing the rain, choosing the chill,

choosing to let the storm understand

that sometimes you don't flee.

Sometimes you just let it come.

Sometimes you stand and let it be

the only thing left, the only drum

beating against your skin,

the only voice, the only sound,

and you realize that drowning

is what you were looking for all along.