The soft pitter patter if the rain on the window never failed to cease the madness long growing in your soul. But this storm- oh, this storm was different. For this storm, in its power, was still not worthy of pacifying the pandemonium of our bodies side by side, our lips locked as a familiar puzzle, our pathetic human hearts beating as one. For this is my favorite form of you; this is the only time I can enter your scorching orbit without risk of being burned. The only time I can carress your skin, feel your lips, hold your heart, is when the rain is present to stiffle the intesity of your ever illuminating light. Playing with you is playing with fire, and I wish for the storm of our lips colliding to remain ever present in these moments, so I can kiss you, feel you, love you- without the harsh singe.