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she was always looking
for her love in the rain
- atticus
✧
a night of petrichor. pouring rain dousing on windows as lovers hide under silk sheets when the sun goes down, replaced with its lover; the moon. body scented of lavender, she can't help but feel a sense of unwanted adomania; the future, what it holds, it comes too fast and too soon, too quick and too swift, and she can't help but connect her actions to her past. as a child, she hid under the covers like it was a whole new universe to explore, and she was ecstatic under those forts, slowly flipping through pages, soaking in each word. she stayed up for so many nights reading until her eyes just about betrayed her, making her hyper aware of her sleepy nature as she tried to tip-toe throughout the house in the early hours of the early morning (even with the loud, obnoxiously creaky floorboards), hoping ma wouldn't catch her sneaking a look at the moon, and how she snatched a bottle of perrier after eyeing the sirop and orangina.
now, though, at twenty years of age instead of ten, she goes with the soixante quinze; made of gin, fresh lemon juice, sugar and champagne. but she stops in her tracks. the moon is out there, peeking. and it's always there: a stalker, waiting to strike, waiting for something, anything to happen. it gazes longingly, like pleading eyes. and it won't go away, only when it's forced to in the daylight. she understands. she doesn't go away unless forced to, either. (do you love me? i love you-je t'aime comme une chanson d'amour.)
YOU ARE READING
A Sapphic's Summer (REVISED 2024)
Poetry1 | Perfectly Imperfect I will forever be subjected to your recklessness. You are not perfect, but then again, you are more perfect for me than you'll ever realize. It will never dawn on you like it dawned on me. And that is okay, as long as you l...
