on that grey day of rain and sorrow, I found you hollowed-out, paper-thin, echoing with sadness that whispered through your veins. The hurt tore through you in shudders and jags, you crumpled, waterlogged, pulped, too soaked to stand and I was afraid that you were lost to the relentless torrent but today I hear that the sun broke through and you are slowly warming, drying out — a new shape, no longer smooth, tracks and scars from the flood's path, but still beautiful, and still here — more pages to be written after all.
