It’s still raining…
The moment I stepped out of your doorstep, I had no idea of what it would cause me a week later or so.
It was raining and I was tired. It was raining and the earth was soft, so soft, I could hear my lithe footsteps. It was raining and it was dark, that you offered me your light so that I could see my way back. It was raining, so you offered me your shawl to protect my fragile limbs and my spinning head from the cold that the thick fog brings. It was raining and I felt your warm hand on my face until I drifted off to sleep underneath my sheets.
We loved the rain. We loved to listen how it crashes into the grounds, wetting it, softening it, washing everything in it away. And oh, how we love to breathe the thick air that comes along with it.
So we did listen that night. We listened and as we did, we whispered our hearts out into the air, letting the rain hear what we had to say.
We reveled with the rain until our bodies slump into each other, spent, but hopeful.
Tonight, I watched the rain feast over the earth, ramming the rooftops, the streets, the windows, while the sky groaned until the children scoured. I watched it through the window; I did not feel the cold, I did not smell the fresh earth either.
The rain did not get to me. The rain did not get to me.
It’s still raining. I have a light, so bright, it fills my room. It’s still raining, and my nostrils are full of mucous, itching my nose. It’s still raining, and I’m not wet, not one bit. It’s raining, and I’m not with you… not anymore.