thom. (rain on me) {One Shot}

so please, for the love of god, don't rain on me.

— 'Thom'
Joji - Chloe Burbank Vol.1 —

I used to love rainy days, until he came into my life.

It's wednesday, and the sun is going down slowly. Clouds get closer and comfier with each other as the sunset makes himself more present than distant. I feel two cold hands, ten cold and bony fingers, hold and embrace my shoulders. The atmosphere becomes easier to handle, easier to take; as the golden hour dissipates and becomes bluer than ever, better than before.

And the thing is that, well, as much as I love having the sun kiss my cheeks, I also fell in love with how the raindrops coincide with the beat of his heart.
And as his hands become colder, I realize I am trying to find life in a place where leaves don't grow.
I am trying to feel true romance in a place where friendship never existed in a first place.

"Speak to me." He whispers into my ear, and I could swear his voice sounds blue, just blue.

Raindrops begin to fall, and so do I, and I melt into his loving arms, these ones, the ones that weren't there just days ago.
Everything turns blue, as clouds fully cover the sky, and as his skin meets mine, and we melt and fuse into this ocean of emotions we've created out of nowhere, out of tears, out of loneliness, out of fear, out of sadness;

Out of blue.

I am suddenly a deer in headlights, drenched in this storm, crying out for a savior who might as well be the man holding me tightly.
And I embrace the adorable feeling of his lips meeting my neck, his fingertips marking the little bruises on my stomach. As I, too, begin to let go of my clothes, and put on my confidence.
He's here, I hope.
He's here, I suppose.

And the lights that were turned on to keep the blue out of here turn off.
And we welcome our loneliness, and greet her through the window. She comes in the shape of a cloud, the salty taste of a tear, the uniformity of a raindrop and the untouchable vulnerability of the strong wind, making himself comfortable through this glass.

As he makes himself comfortable inside of me, I try and beg heavens to help me convince myself that I don't want to die. That this is company. That this is love.
I am terrified of the lightning, I am scared of the darkness, I am devoted to the rain, I am in love with this weather, man, rain, coldness.
I don't have him for a forever, I won't have him here tomorrow, I let out a tear as I kiss his neck and make myself comfortable on his lap.

We are not that.
We won't have a lovely house, with a white pickett fence, and flowers blooming. We won't eat fruit straight fallen from the tree in our backyard, we won't spend the golden hours holding each other and drinking our golden lemonade, sitting outside.

All we have is this;
A blue afternoon.
The smell of rain.
My purple bruises.
His rosy lips.
Our messy heads.
Our naked bodies.
Our loneliness.

And once we're done curing each other's blueness, he wraps me in a blanket. He covers me, and hugs me, and cuddles me, and tells me he will love me forever. And I believe him, and I promise him I will wait as much as it's needed. And I promise him that I will forever be devoted to him.
We're talking in tongues; we're making each other believe we won't just simply pretend we've forgotten about each other in some hours. One will go on with his life, and find another blue, bruised boy.
The other, will stay here and wait, and dream of another rainy wednesday afternoon; bluer than this.

He, so tenderly, watches me burn.
I see his soul kissing mine goodbye.

But we begin to talk and try to maintain each other in this earth, we ask each other simple questions.
"Are you interested in going to Japan?"
"Do you actually like rainy days?"
But even if I try, I know he, eventually, won't be here anymore. He won't love me anymore. He won't hold me, and embrace me, and praise me whenever I do something he likes. He won't be here forever; how could I expect that?

I'd like to, simply, take his cold hand and hold it, hold it as we go outside and jump and play under the raindrops, and dance to the rhythm of this strange, yet beautiful symphony we call love, life. I'd like to be part of the harmony he creates with each smile, each joke, each and every simple gesture of gratitude.

But I am just what loneliness creates.
I am the personification of everything blue for him.
I am not more than just me, the deer, the drenched cloth hanging to dry under a storm, nothing more than a poem written on marker, but someone cried over me and I am now spilled, I am now running through the paper.

I am this.
I am the chaos in this breeze.
I am the calmness in this wind.
I am the rage his sadness created.

But he's saying goodbye.

And he's gone.
I've been just another step.

— • —
A.N:
I wrote this while crying my heart out, don't be cruel please. I'm not doing good in life. I'm sorry.