Rain. Whatever it is. It’s just a myth. For we. The Karachiates. Have never seen it. Rained. The way. They say it does. In the west. Yes, sometimes. Some rare times. We do see. Little drops. Washing over the dust. The dust. That layered our trees. Our homes. And. Our hearts.

One could never know. Where it begins. Or. Where it ends. The blue. That goes beyond. Taking in many stories. Taking in many cries. It never complains. Never dies. It’s there. Always. And. Always will be. The Vast.

It’s Okay. That’s what they say. Every time I cry. They let them dry. My tears. My life. A cry. That’s what it is. A never ending cry. My life. My love. Nothing. But. A cry.