Morphine Ghost

I used to sit by the hospital window for hours, watching the rain erase the world. The drops blurred the parking lot into watercolor, washed the dust from forgotten cars, and carried little rivers along the cracked pavement until everything looked clean again. Wrapped in morphine, I believed the rain was doing to the earth what the medicine was doing to me—gently dissolving every sharp edge, every regret, every memory that hurt too much to keep. I would rest my forehead against the cool glass and imagine that if it rained long enough, it might wash me away too, leaving behind only a quiet room, an empty bed, and a peace so deep that even my own name could no longer find me.