It has been raining for days. Mathew stands in the middle of the street, contemplation peeling back layers of his raw skin. Mathew waits for the stoplight to fade from amber to red. Cars blur and fade into water droplets crystallizing on the asphalt. He barely sees them moving.

It has been raining for weeks. Mathew crouches in the kitchen. Earlier he looked out the window above the sink at the droplets hanging from trees, wondering if at dawn he might be in the exact same place and see icicles. Now he dabs at water he’ s spilled. It pools in graceful arcs on the linoleum.

It has been raining for months. Mathew sits at the Laundromat. He watches the spin cycle and is suddenly reminded that it is a Tuesday. Sometimes Mathew wishes he could climb into the washing machine. The sound of the dryers drowns out the dull pounding of the rain outside. His body relaxes.

It has been raining for years. Mathew goes on long walks by the strip malls. Often he stops to pick his wet heart up off the ground.

It has been raining for longer than anyone can remember. Mathew rots in the ground. Mathew is underneath soil and rock and excess. Mathew never was. You would not know the moment when he vanished, a raindrop quietly bursting on the ground.