a quiet doom

i’ve been driving through rain

for as long as I can remember.

the windows fog up

before I even start the engine.

the seat remembers me.

the ache in my shoulders, too.

it’s all familiar…

this damp quiet,

this slow hum of still going.

i don’t know what it’s like

to drive under clear skies.

to start the day dry,

full,

unafraid.

i was twelve the first time

i noticed the leak in the ceiling.

twenty-eight now,

and it still drips:

a rhythm i‘ve grown used to.

and the rain…

it cradles me, sometimes.

wraps the car in a kind of hush

no one else can hear.

it makes the world small. manageable.

almost safe.

but there’s something in that, too:

a quiet doom.

because comfort in the rain

means i never expect sun.

means part of me believes

this is all there will ever be.

that i was made for grey.

it’s hard to trust yourself

when you’ve spent most of your life

running on almost-empty.

and harder still

to imagine someone else

climbing into the passenger seat—

believing the ride will be smooth,

when even you

aren’t sure

you’ll make it home.

— Lux