Of All The Stories I've Written, I Share With You, Stranger, These Few

And It's Free

Sitting on the steps of the building,
hot sweat dripping down my skin.
I watch as the trees speak to each other.
I knew what they were saying:
a plead for the sweet relief
of rain.
I knew,
I felt it too.
The cool wind and cloudy sky
taunting me,
teasing me.

Oh, how I miss the rain.
With its sloppy kisses and heavy embraces.
The white noise of the drops
as they pounded on the roof
of my isolated family cabin
deep in the woods of New Hampshire.
Even the days rain brings:
Staying in bed, held close by the arms of your beloved,
the churring of the coffee maker distant in both your ears.

I miss the freedom rain brings.
The utter feeling of true and raw freedom
as you dance wildly in the wet driveway of your front yard,
oblivious to the eyes that watch you.
Its love,
true love.
That kind of love you see
in teenage chick-flick movies,
where the boy and the girl stare at each other, hair damp and clothes soaking,
just waiting for the two to
finally,
finally
kiss.
And when they do, that's love.
And it's beautiful.
And it's free.

And yet the driveway is dry,
my clothes are soaked with not rain but sweat, and I have no one
to kiss in the rain.
Because there is no rain.
I miss the rain.