If you say it silently to yourself, it makes sense.

gotcha

Thrip. Thrip. Thrip. Thrip.
The rain washes the streets and imagery away from my head.
All I can see is your laughter silencing mine.
Placidness replaces the current atmosphere.
Your glare intense in my eyes.
I look up and see the clouds closing in.
I look down at you once again, as your tongue playfully catches the rain.
Thrip. Thrip. Thrip.