The rain pours on my white sweater.
I look up to the sky,
my face feels like it's covered in wood
and it swells everytime there's rain,
but no one can see my tears
because I don't cry—
not like you, not really.

I stand on the road, clear of people,
clear of the love I had
from walking on this journey.
I dream of prairies,
but I'm left with clear streets
black pavement,
and cobblestones soaked
in what might have been.

I look back,
even if my sweater's
wet and splattered by mud
every time I take a step back
so I choose to keep
walking forward.

What's behind my shoulders
isn't worth it.