I drip to the nearest solid object,
Not too soft to soak through
Yet not to slick that I slide off
I glide to different objects as I try to hold onto to each for a short period of time
I keep falling...
but sometimes I mistake it for a slope.
I try to stay in a spot as long as possible
Because the more I fall, the more I lose of myself
Until I reach the one
The one leaf that holds the puddle 
The pool of the rest of me...
The other parts of me...
It completes me...
This poem is about: 
Our world


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