The Rain Man At the corner of a gloomy dusk, he stands, the rain man — arriving without promise, his steps soaked with a longing that never dries, his eyes holding the skies he often brings home. He is no storm, nor is he thunder, just a drizzle that falls in silence, watering the soil of memories and time’s garden, where his love once bloomed—then fell, one by one. His hands are cold but gently calming, he hugs the world’s wounds without many words, his faint smile, like dew on a morning leaf, vanishes slowly, but warms—briefly. No one knows, how hard he cries when the world sleeps, how he wishes to be a rainbow, but always becomes a cloud swept by wind. The rain man—never asks to be understood, he knows not every love is meant to be kept, it’s enough for him to watch you from a quiet window, while hoping... you knew he once passed by, like the rain—brief, then gone. And if you hear raindrops in the dark of night, it’s not just water falling from the sky, it’s the longing he never spoke, falling gently between the silences you embrace. He was never meant to be the sun, but he knew how to give you shelter, beneath the umbrella of memories that never dried, he stood—though never called, never sought. For the rain man was never to be owned, he came to teach the meaning of leaving, erasing footprints in his own quiet way, loving in silence… without asking to be seen. And if someday you miss the silence, open your window between dream and dawn, perhaps there — behind the curtain of cold dew, the rain man still waits for you… voiceless, never gone. --- [End]