Does the rain really cleanse anything away, or just hide it beneath a drowning river?

It's raining today.
The water trickles down the street-sides,
gently tugging at
lethargic leaves
that don't know the difference
between stay and go.

The window cries onto
my pane
and drips the muck of washless days.
My heart is searching
for something real
outside, between the grungy lines.

I call out to you.
Both.
Alive, or dead,
I get no response,

The way that raindrops fall and melt
into the ground
with no remorse or
absolution.

Reach out to touch them,
once or twice,
they'll shatter in your palm.