Everything is relative.
Rain from the inside of a window or a warm bed or car, or standing in the middle of the road at midnight during a thunder storm.
A good book your english teacher assigned your class to finish by the end of the month, or the letters that you wrote to him at 1 a.m. every night, and watched him read the next day.
The run you go on to reach 2 miles, then 3 and 4, or the pang in your heart as you sprint home at 5 a.m., up the hill and away from him.
The people who touch you, 6 or 7 times, and never look inside, or the few that rip you open, make you vulnerable to everything humane, and demand blood loss to be felt as pure.
It's a relative ratio, between the everyday and the unbearable, the unspeakable. A small fraction which represents the times you'll feel this way; a star in the sky at daytime. The eyes closed, overdosing on 8 hours of sleep, against your lips with his, and how you feel your mother's chest rise and fall as she breathes and you stay awake. It's relative, and the denominator could swallow the numerator, and still hold more meaning than your own footprints on the moon.
The 9 tears that drop from your eyes when you scrape your knee, or the 10 you hold back as your head caves in because you can't find anyone who still cares.