Mother kept leaving her son.

Not cruelly, just with that polite kind of sorrow

that teaches you how to disappear

without asking to be found.

No one ever explained

why he was alone.

Maybe they thought silence

was inheritance.

He kept walking,

looking for a house that didn’t flinch.

But every door he built

forgot his name.

So he stopped.

Stayed by the river,

where things leave and return

without guilt.

When he cried,

the rain tried to comfort him,

gave him flowers,

small proofs of pity disguised as bloom.

He called them friends.

They called him weather.

It was almost enough.

Sometimes he rebuilt the house again,

painted the walls with rainwater,

placed flowers on the table

like stand-ins for people.

Outside, the valley kept blooming.

Beautiful. Untouchable.

He thought,

maybe I’ll live there.

With rain and flower,

where everything dies.

Together forever