The Rain

February 27, 2013
By Rdelaney SILVER, Fort Worth, Texas
Rdelaney SILVER, Fort Worth, Texas
8 articles 0 photos 2 comments

Favorite Quote:
"She wasn't doing a thing that I could see, except standing there, leaning on the railing, holding the universe together." J.D. Salinger

The white light from the computer screen touches skeleton shadows on my face.
I type.
I breathe deeply and exhale words, the wind tickles through leaves outside my window.
The dry crackles turn wet and sweet, and hit the ground like lemonade.
It sounds like rain.

The cold tangles itself in goosebumps on my arms and crawls inside my boots to lay next to my feet.
I shiver.
I imagine warm arms around me, only too late do I recognize the calloused knuckles and soft palms.
They're yours.
The laughing in the courtyard turns sleepy, like whispers of a train lingering over tracks.
It sounds like rain.

Headlights melt watery window panes on my wall, and slide away with the silence.
I breathe.
Laundry detergent and apple perfume tiptoe down my throat, but by the time it reaches my brain, the smells mingle and twist themselves.
It smells like you.
Tires meet corners like gravel, but through the glass of my window the sound is clogged and soft, like drowsy socks in the back corner of my drawer.
It sounds like rain.

The shower head slinks hot streams over my back like tight ribbons, steaming my muscles and memories.
I think.
Tiny ringing shakes the glass door so I can feel the beat in my chest, so I can taste it in my mouth.
The phone on the counter used to ring for you, even when the messages carried one meaningless letter or one meaningless question.
The shower head stops, and I'm left with razor sharp, flower soap quiet that saturates my ears and isolates me with the sound of my own heart, beating like broken drums and cracked CDs.
It sounds like rain.

My dog barks.
It sounds like rain.
The doorbell rings.
It sounds like rain.
Footsteps pummel the stairs.
It sounds like rain.
The door swings open.

It's not you at the door, and it rains.
It's not you on the phone, and it rains.
It's not you at my locker, and it rains.
It's not you in the hall, and it rains.

The time the movie screen hit our faces like ghost shadows.
Secret elbows and warm fingers, sliding arm rests and desperate, tense longing that tasted warm and spicy like cinnamon gum.
The time your voice lasted for forty four minutes, or the time you smiled and your lips read OUR SECRET.
The time you cared.
And it sounded like rain.

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