Neil.
Me.
And the rains.
Stolen, we stayed spooned, showering upon each other light nibbles and deep kisses. It had to be you. With your unassuming manners and unexpected flowers. Your stripes and my strokes. Together, we made a canvas. Made many canvasses actually. On such thunderous evenings gallivanting into the night. When each ear-piercing thunder pulled me closer. You came in through the door in your non-slogan, non-striking t-shirt and very well fitted denims. And smiled as you heard me. Over dinner off the same plate. Poured us our drinks. Your water and my ice-cubes over scotch. And smiled even more when it was a bottle of Glenmorangie I could surprise you with.
You brought relief to my sweltering loneliness in your crisscross of feet over the sofa armrest, and erased it when they sometimes casually slipped onto my shoulders and teased the collarbones which ached to come out to appease you. You didn't care much, or so you said. You only cared for the rains. To remind you of me. And declare, "I have been dying to kiss you", as you did.
You left with the rains that year. Like the rains. Undeclared, unceremonious.
And you return each time the rains do. Undeclared. Catching me off guard, as I uncharacteristically am reminded of you, and brought back to senses with the sound of the keys I hit -- they have the same rhythm as our chemistry did. Gentle, like a lullaby. Potent, like a volcano. Sad, like most perfect things are. I return to our daughter purring in the next room, as she makes a sound quite obviously not used to the sky screaming. As I tucked the quilt into the space between her shoulder and chin, I am lost in making way for her eyes to dream, pulling her curls to a common point. She has a you-chin. Which neither of you know.
Could I ever hate you? You left with the rains. When we lived, we lived a dream. When you left, I remained with one.
Surprisingly for the cruelest month, it rains on.
You brought relief to my sweltering loneliness in your crisscross of feet over the sofa armrest, and erased it when they sometimes casually slipped onto my shoulders and teased the collarbones which ached to come out to appease you. You didn't care much, or so you said. You only cared for the rains. To remind you of me. And declare, "I have been dying to kiss you", as you did.
You left with the rains that year. Like the rains. Undeclared, unceremonious.
And you return each time the rains do. Undeclared. Catching me off guard, as I uncharacteristically am reminded of you, and brought back to senses with the sound of the keys I hit -- they have the same rhythm as our chemistry did. Gentle, like a lullaby. Potent, like a volcano. Sad, like most perfect things are. I return to our daughter purring in the next room, as she makes a sound quite obviously not used to the sky screaming. As I tucked the quilt into the space between her shoulder and chin, I am lost in making way for her eyes to dream, pulling her curls to a common point. She has a you-chin. Which neither of you know.
Could I ever hate you? You left with the rains. When we lived, we lived a dream. When you left, I remained with one.
Surprisingly for the cruelest month, it rains on.
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