The rain.

Well hello, my friend.
It's been quite some while and you sound good - your tattoo against my roof.
I lay awake at this stupid hour before the light and hear your every drop.
And I think back on impossible and forgotten nights where I would huddle in bus shelters and under stairwells, between buildings and beneath hedgerows, occasionally in an unlocked car and, as sometimes fortune would have it, in a stranger's house
seeking to avoid your frozen embrace.
And I have hated you in ways that only the lost and the stupid and the desperate to survive can hate.
But not now, rain.
Now, I have my three blankets, a roof over me, food in my stomach and two more hours before the terror of another working day.

Let it come down...