The Next Epoch

11 | Rain

{original concept written 30 May 2017; this draft 21 Dec 2017}

Heads tipped back and grey clouds overhead and the tension in our chests - gone with the first drop.

You take my hand and say, "My grandmother said the rain was angels weeping," though it's more to yourself than to me. There is no melancholy in your voice. Your hair begins to plaster to your face. I am silent.

"She never said they were crying from sorrow," you say. I watch little worms try to escape their homes, to leave this miniature monsoon. The rain is cold, but your hand is warm so as the pitter-patter continues against the sidewalk, I don't let go.

I am still silent.

I look up at the sky, and behind the grey I see the Sun. And I look at you, baby blue hair plastered to your face and I remember grade 10 English and I remember -

JULIET IS THE SUN.

The thought is the loudest thought I've had in weeks. It is the closest I will get to speaking today. It is the red of cartoon hearts, it is the golden yellow of sunrises, it is the neon of fluorescent lights at midnight, it is vivid against this monochromatic storm of angels' tears. I'm almost surprised you can't hear it.

I look away.

I look up.

The rain washes away all the bad things and it leaves just us.

I let it. Wash away the pollution, the poison, in the air and in the mind. If I had the chance to be good, why wouldn't I take it?

If the grey washes away the bad, why is it melancholy?

"The angels don't always weep of sadness," you say. And I smile. If they did, how miserable they must be.