When It Rains

I think of you, when it rains.


Don’t you remember
The fickle breezes
Spattering droplets in our faces,
How a great gust carried off your Donald Duck umbrella
And we chased it,
Across the square, across the park,
Where it finally caught
In the rosebushes.
One of the ribs was broken
But I laughed
And laughed because it made Donald’s tail droop,
Until you were laughing too.
I don’t know how we didn’t even
Notice that my hands were bleeding from the thorns
Until we were halfway home.
You asked me if it hurt—
Of course it did,
But it didn’t matter—
Besides, I just can’t cry with raindrops running down my face,
Running down my arms,
Running free.


Or, what about
The spangling rain of winter,
Sharp—but harmless, like pins-and-needles—on our skin
But death to the letters
In the postbox
Where their words would bleed their life away,
Stabbed with rain.
So for safety,
You tucked the letters under your shirt
Then pulled off your jacket,
Held it
Over our heads—
Your arm around my shoulder,
Mine around your waist—
And we fled to the front porch,
Stumbling through sodden grass,
Skidding through slick water.
And you wanted to know, “Are you cold?”
Me? No, never—not with your arms wrapped around me,
Wrapped in your jacket,
Wrapped in storm.


But, in the somersault of autumn,
Rain, falling rain—
Soft and warm in the afternoon—
And sky wrapped in skin of breathing clouds
Kept us safe.
My feet on your feet,
Penguin walking,
Wet-grass barefoot dancing,
And spinning,
My hands in your hands,
Fingers holding us together at the centre of a reeling green world
Until we sat dizzy down
Laughing,
Panting to the rhythm of the falling wet heartbeat around us,
My seaweed hair clinging to my neck,
Caught in the corner of a smile.
You said
I was your mermaid, pearl-pale and glimmering
Because I loved wet hair days,
Loved water,
Loved rain.


It’s raining now,
Without you.
I watch it from the window
Inside, because I—
I never could cry with raindrops running down my face
Or onto the spattered letter in my hand.
The window-glass is cold,
And slippery with salty prints
From fingers
That held yours.
I know the postman comes by your place at 3 o’clock
He’ll have this letter in his waterproof bag—but
He’ll leave it
In your postbox
To bleed to death in the stinging rain.
Unless—you save it
Dash out across the glistened lawn, take it
Tuck it under your jacket—
Will you—will you hold this letter close against you,
Hold my words,
Hold me—

Just—just hold me close again,
With the sky’s wet heartbeat falling all around us—


I miss you when it rains.



~Riorlynë