Letter to Rain

Beloved Rain,

You are here at a time when you are not supposed to be. It feels as if you have come only to take your letter. Do you know why I never dared one to you? I believed that before I could write one, it would be washed out. Faded before it reached you, like a promise. And too dry for you to soak in any pleasure. But your visit today was like a whiplash to my propriety, and sanity. Who was I fooling? I couldn't write to you because you are way too many emotions to be surveyed together. You are someone with whom I can boldly bare myself. What does one write to you about?

Some wistful affections, may be? Some desires? Should I rather tell you of a very dear song in a very favourite version? Of what it feels like to be tucked in a warm corner with a soft blanket and softer sunshine and sweet oranges? In happy tears and sad smiles? And some memories that were, some that could have been and some more that can never be...?

Here you are, all impressing, how you have never received a letter from me. Growling -- beautifully mercilessly. Washing away all that ever stirred even a sense of pain, or fear. Washing over, as if the world in its multitude of manners were a canvas. Caring not for anyone as you called for my attention, undivided. Unleashing, like that was the sole purpose of your life, even when unseasonal.

You have gone, yet, this will reach you, for you have left behind a fragrance for it to trace. And till such time that you come visiting again, to drown the agonizing summer, you can breathe in the only thing I have to say. It wafts your way. For many things you reassure, for many more that you cure.

You are mine,
K.