There's something precious about the rain. Something so dainty and a little sad. It is intriguing. Like the word "melancholy." When I hear the rain glibly splash on the roof, I think "melancholy." Not "sorrowful" or "mournful." Melancholy. The other words are supposed synonyms but do not mean the same thing.
Websters defines melancholy as a deep pensive, and long-lasting sadness.
Melancholy seeps into your bones. It does not poke or prod, but smiles apologetically and wraps itself around you. Melancholy is rain, cold and peaceful, precious. It is soft and heartbroken, kind but aching.
Melancholy is a petal cascading to the forest floor. It is tiptoeing footsteps on cement, a bobcat's yowl or slowly ripping paper. Melancholy is a feeling of accepting the sadness, letting it hold you, sway you to sleep at night. Melancholy is rain.
Websters defines melancholy as a deep pensive, and long-lasting sadness.
Melancholy seeps into your bones. It does not poke or prod, but smiles apologetically and wraps itself around you. Melancholy is rain, cold and peaceful, precious. It is soft and heartbroken, kind but aching.
Melancholy is a petal cascading to the forest floor. It is tiptoeing footsteps on cement, a bobcat's yowl or slowly ripping paper. Melancholy is a feeling of accepting the sadness, letting it hold you, sway you to sleep at night. Melancholy is rain.
