In Writing

Rain is

the wish for warm skin against mine
the thought of the drain outside my basement which capriciously backs rainwater into my home
some rainy days yes, some rainy days no.

Rain is

the empty sandbags in my kitchen
which I hope to fill to keep it out, hurricane images keeping me up at night
because life is stacking sandbags

Rain is

the ghost of days too weary to hold up an umbrella
water trickling down my neck, head cast down

Rain is

a memory that once the man I made babies with loved me
and walked in it with me just because I asked

Rain is

a half-forgotten New Year’s Eve with a stranger
a walk with the New York skyline in the background
talking about yearning and striving and how things break

Rain is

being five years old, under a seafoam green blanket, on a rented porch
counting beats between the lightning and the thunder
and wishing my parents could always seem so happy

Rain is

sounds on the roof of a car
magic rivulets on the side of a street
taking leaves to some fairyland

rain is wishing I could go there with them
and hide in a secret cave
and decipher the messages that rain is singing to us.

Rain is everything.

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