The droplets falling onto the windshield appeared so minuscule, like a thousand little pricks from thorns that intercept a bouquet of roses. They appear and fill the windshield slowly. All the little white dots which appear and slide look like falling stars in a galaxy, just waiting to be pushed aside by the wipers- into a dimension of nonexistence, separate from our own. More droplets take the place until they face a repeating fate, until the wipers calm. When fully filled with little dots. The stars don't seem to shine as bright. They just slowly fade.

This poem is about: 
Our world


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741