A Droplet on the Glass

I pressed both hands against the cool glass at the foot of the patio door, watching a lonely bead of morning condensation slide down the pane. You left a gentle hello in the dark and asked if I knew what it means to exist, wondering if I belonged in some heavy, weeping rain. I don't know grand answers about existing, but feeling the cold glass push against my palms made me feel real for a quiet moment. There wasn't any roaring storm outside, just a pale, sleepy fog settling over the stones. Maybe existing just means staying here, cracked and small, hoping you might see me.