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The sky gift's me, ever so often, with something I've loved for as long as my memory serves me. As a child, having climbed chairs that now barely reach my thighs, I would pray as soon as the sky lost its bright blue to golden," Oh God, I hope it rains tomorrow."
Then my mother would chime, "It's mid-July sweetheart, it wont be raining anytime soon."
Yet, the very next day, I would find myself seated in front of the grilled metal window of our third story apartment like clockwork, praying with every inch of my soul for rain once more.
Over time my affection towards this natural phenomenon only grew, I romanticize its existence; how it falls from heights my arms can never reach, with grace strong enough to shame ballet- within its small structure; to merge with the Earth it soo dearly loves. Traveling from the heavens to leave its imprints on it.
Sometimes Destructive, sometimes Fruitful.
It's blue electric webs of light, branching as far as it can grasp, its desperation to initiate its intimacy with its pair. It's voice forcing the sky tremble and tear.
It's peace, its fury, its glory, its bitter salute- cold against my bare skin as I sit under its umbrella.
How its perfection resonates with something soo deep in my core, it leave me comatose.
Paralysingly Beautiful
Absolutely Smitten
Terribly Addicting
If I were to describe a perfect day, it would resemble something like so:
A cloudy, grey afternoon- the ones where you can't tell weather its day or night
Sitting on a warm bed, surrounded by dimly lit lights, a soft Sonata to compliment the hitting of raindrops against the window shade
My back arched over my journal, my hair pulled back as I describe my love for it: the Rain
My face towards it as it blows cold kisses through the ajar glass of my aperture.
Telling me how it loves me, just as much as it loves the brown and green of this sphere I inhabit.
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