That which is wet always wills itself to dry,
And puddles have a teasing way,
but they mean no harm.
All the wet mud that makes you cringe
will be caked like an old man's knuckles.
And hair is hair,
It finds its ways to misbehave.
As do the drops as they trickle.
As they tickle.
Or quietly find each other
In little dents of skin and surface.
Step out,if only for the croaks or the smells
if only to see the sky sulk,
And it's million moanful complaints.
A little rain never hurt anyone.
A little loneliness just might.