Wednesday, June 17, 2015


I still love the rain.
I always have, even after so many storms.
I remember kissing you in the rain
during our lunch break
somehow both as cold, wet, uncomfortable
and romantic as it seems.

And the thunderstorm
the day we sheltered in a porchswing
and didn’t count it a loss,
a garden walk ruined
but laughed
and listened to the lion roar
and the pattering of rain around us
You held out a ring
my fingers wet, I took it.

And the flood, rain for hours, washing
away everything I owned,
but I pulled through.
Things can be replaced.

But that flood was nothing
placed against the clear december sky
six months later,
when I lost everything I thought I had with you
with an email that opened with
I love you
and ended with
let’s still be friends.
We are not “Still Friends.”

And now the rain comes again,
thunder rolling in the purpled sky.
Petrichor is in the air, the smell of rain,
which is the smell of you.

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