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enormous drenched drops plop on my forehead,
drizzle down in between my eyelashes
to my weary eyes,
all the way down to my neck.
The palate of the sky sardined with clouds ranges from a midnight blue,
to an almost stark white.
It looks like rain.
Every now and then there is a colossal burst of overwhelming thunder,
a blinding brilliance of illuminating lighting,
and then back to the unfaltering heartbeat of rain.
The pulse of this rain; the gentle pitter-patter that has come to be so familiar,
Yet it has a fresh resonance each time it echoes throughout my eardrum.
The rain has the most inquisitive scent.
Sometimes it smells like victory, and glory;
other times it is saturated with a stink—failure.
The rain’s taste is like every important memory that has ever happened to me confined into a single embryonic drop. That very drop slugs down in my mouth, to my throat, and encourages me to reminisce.
I love the sensation that surrounds my entire body when I witness downpour:
an adrenalin rush, mixed with melancholy,
Bring on the rain.