She had never cared much for
the smell of the rain.
But one day, someone she loved
taught her a new word:
Petrichor.

And she decided that
the gloom had grace,
and the fog could laugh,
and the petals cried,
and their tears were sweet.

And drinking in the melancholic
rays of sun,
she thought:
maybe the chasm in her chest
was not a hole but a window.

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