Pieces of Moonbeams

V: dewdrops on tuesday evening

you doze off yourself
into a peaceful slumber,
the thoughts of sleeping
are pulling you in.

it was one late afternoon
when the rain puts a war on top
of your steady roofs armored
in gray bedrocks—not penetrating
in a dewdrop, but lets you hear
what it sounds like--

the music's reaching in for the climax,
the acapella slowly brandishes its sword
to dwell on the heavy droplets of rain.
you and i still both hear them:
not overlapping each other.
blending in. mixing well.
we don't know why.

it sounds like more than the ounce of drop
of water that you failed to trickle into the stagnant pond
with frogs that jump off the coast to reach fireflies coming
to light the way of your 14 year-old cat to curl its limbs
and switch his eyes to the darkness. like a lamp switching off
at 12am sharp—and on its way to sleep between our legs
with fluffy and soft head and skin—
we can never pull out of touch.

because its "meow" was louder than the rain
which even us don't know that it
even mimicks the soulful song
of the hummingbirds that flew backwards.
"how beautiful is that?"

the sun switches with the moon.
the rain passed, it's night now.
lightning strikes; it's midnight.

you listen to both of our heartbeats—but i skip a beat,
you put your ears on my chest—mine's the same,
but yours don't beat for mine.
the rain never fills out my entire ocean—
for i let my tiny dewdrops drank by you.

all i know is—we're linked by existence:
we breathe the same air,
we see the same sky,
we hear the same rain,
we sleep on the same day
on a Tuesday evening.

dewdrops on tuesday evening
May 30, 2023