Rain

I once knew a girl that reminded me of rain.

Sometimes like the softest drizzle.

Other times a heavy downpour—the kind that would leave you shivering like a field mouse in the reach of a hungry snake.

To know someone like this almost never ends well.

For rain, you see, is a cold thing where I live.

Perhaps if we knew each other in a more tropical climate, our acknowledgements of one another would have lasted longer.

But just like the rain here, she quickly dissipated into the earth after our parting.

And she left all sorts of things behind after that.

A collection of sharp scattered pebbles in my throat.

An eerie smoothness to my skin.

And the ever present scent of new air.

I learned how to dance in her.

It was difficult at first—for dancing in rain always is at the beginning.

It was only a matter of finding my footing.

And even so it was perfectly imperfect.

Unfortunately, rain has a habit of being unpredictable.

One minute you are letting the gentle misty droplets kiss the apples of your cheeks.

And the next you are hiding — rushing for cover.

Looking for answers that aren't there.

And never will be.

But fortunately, rain has a habit of being forgettable.

Rain has a habit of getting lost in the back of your mind if you let it be.

Rain just happens, you see, without purpose.

With time you can turn its memory into a ghost of itself.

For even on the days in which it is beating down on my window pain,

Harsh and heavy,

I have learned how to let the rain dance by herself.