The sharp droplets of water scantily scatter themselves upon my window as my gaze lingers upon them.

 

I loathe and praise them because they are like me,

they are trapped like me,

and they are stuck like me.

 

The animosity for the tornado that brought the dew upon this window radiates brightly.

I can feel their pain seep through my skin as I slowly glide my finger along their unsteady blurs.

 

But if many droplets try to take flight from the window with enough tension—

as if they were a rubber band—

then they can escape.

 

I try to assist them with their scanty escapade,

but they do not will for me to oblige my time.

 

The ever-changing shapes they mold into as they fall into different objects,

project diversity,

and constant unrecognizable appearances are what I can favor as a similarity to me.

 

Out of the many, if only one tries to flee the window, it cannot—

for it is trapped.

 

Oh, how I wish they could see their captor, but they cannot;

they just move in unknown whirlwinds as they travel different surfaces of the world.

 

For that, I am envious of droplets.