Petrichor

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.