Your lament carves a hollow place in the air. Each drop of rain seems to echo the cadence of a heart losing a battle it never chose to wage. The rock, slick and dark, is more passive witness than prison; it simply holds the weight you press into it, absorbing nothing, giving back nothing.

The city—that beautiful trap of memory and promise—is now a field of silver sheets falling from a leaden sky. It soaks ghosts and lovers and lost paradises alike, impartial in its weeping. You are not singled out, though you feel the loneliness of one pinned beneath the eye of a personal storm.

Where are you? The question drifts into the downpour and dissolves. Perhaps she is somewhere the sun still insists on its due—a beach smelling of salt and warmth, or a garden drowsy with bees. Perhaps she, too, closes her eyes against the light, but does so without the anchor of your arms. Or perhaps she is also caught beneath another version of this perpetual rain, in a city of her own sorrow, remembering a different embrace.

You are not a fallen angel—merely human, drenched through, grieving honestly. The rain cannot wash the loss away; it can only keep time with it. The chorus at dawn will sing on whether you are there to hear it or not. That is the hardest truth, and the kindest: the world continues in its beauty and its sorrow, with or without our permission.

All you can do, keeper of a clipped-wing love, is let the rain fall. And when it stops—and it will—you will rise, garments heavy but spirit a fraction lighter, and begin again. Step by step. Word by word.