Sometimes I wish this rain wasn’t as cold as it is. I hear its voice when hitting my roof, a choir, confused, but a steady, controlled, stream of notes.
My skin fragile, one cold drop could sink into my bones, giving me a chill, a shudder.
I have felt this type of coldness before.
Coming out of the rain, hanging my raincoat on the doorknob, while the rain warms, falls to the floor, evaporates.
Yet, the sidewalk outside my door, (for I watch what the rain does) shows signs…pot marks, from the beating of voices. It needs no fists. I’ve known that. It’s common sense.
Under the eaves, where the rain cannot hit directly, it’s smooth, but out, exposed to the roundest, roughest drops, cracks, erosion, and moss form a chaos.
Only a thin layer protects me, shingle, frame, sheetrock.
I’m barefoot, watching the rain through the window, drops slide, making a trail, then disappear.
Then, I see you approach. You don’t speak. You don’t need to. Your body like the sun.