That Rain Never Came

This afternoon I smelled the rain
but the rain never came
instead the sun beat on my building's roof
while I waited for your shadow to appear
you always said that the rain will come soon
and I hated it when you said it
I hated the rain when I was outside
it made my vision blurry,
I had to carry my umbrella like an old woman as I made splashing sounds
and made my practical shoes cry

I waited and remembered
remembered watching you sleep, all curled up like a fetus
hugging Mr. Hotdog to yourself
remembered brushing your hair and tracing that mark
that made you, distinctly you
remembered how we used to laugh and exchange stories
until our eyes drooped and begged us to sleep
remembered when I opened my door to see you standing there
and felt like I suddenly knew where the pot of gold was hidden

yes, the rain never came today
just like you never did
on the same day when she changed her name,
to broadcast her freedom maybe.