[Hm. I might be writing more prose poetry than fiction with some of those. Oops. Writing Time: 6 minutes]
R is for Rain
It’s not the same here as it was in Scotland. Not the same as it was in Texas either. And it never rained in New York.
One was calmly beautiful. One was wild as the sea. One was dry as the space between my legs.
One was wash away. One was start again. One was dead and white as last year’s bone.
Not here. Here, it rains like this: Dum-dum-dum-drum-dum. Crash. Whirl. Puddle and pour. Here, a girl can drown in two inches of water.
Here, it rains like tomorrow won’t end and last night never came and dry heat is a thing for those who hate to get tangled in sheets.
Here, it gathers all the lovers I’ve ever known or wanted to know or wished I’d never know, gathers them until they’re too heavy for even the sky to hold, then releases them together in a drench of sighs and cries, of gush and swirl.
I don’t want to miss the clouds, those black carriers of tumble and fall. I don’t want to close my eyes through the rumble, this slow counting of “one, two, three…”, the crack of thunder you know is coming, but it shudders you anyway.
Electric. Drenched. Grounded as a kite string, thin as a bolt of inspiration. Sudden knowledge is never sudden. Everything strikes twice; you have to count the warnings.
It is not the same here. It is not the same anywhere. Here, I will lift my face to the steel-cloud sky, the rolling storm, the inevitable demise. I will kiss whatever comes.