You used to say rain was just the sky crying that we were apart. I’d roll my eyes, think about kissing you and saying, “you’re so dramatic” all at the same time.
You’d roll me over in bed, pull the sheets around us like some tightly wrapped burrito. You were one of the few I liked this feeling with. The closeness never felt claustrophobic. It just felt right.
“Okay, so maybe we actually did something dumb and it pissed off Zeus,” You explained this new theory, thunderstorms echoing in the distance.
I liked this one much better. Less Nicholas Sparks, more in-line with my childhood obsession with Greek Mythology. You loved working these references into conversations. You said it was like gaining pieces of me you didn’t have the privilege to know firsthand. All of my nostalgic stories, like how often I would take home books on Gods and Goddesses from my elementary school library.
“I can just imagine you shuffling in at recess, frantic to get those tiny hands of yours on it,” He would mimic my action, shifting his body language to that of an anxious schoolgirl.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Librarian! DID SOMEONE CHECK OUT MY BOOK ON GREEK MYTHOLOGY??????? I can’t seem to find it!!! Please help!” You continuing this personation, and I’d laugh.
“That’s not how I sounded. You dick.”
We’d kiss. You’d kiss me and fill me with so much light, I didn’t need umbrellas or rain boots. You’d kiss me and everything tasted like summer nights and drive-in movie theaters. You’d kiss me and I thought, yes, this is why romantic movies have scenes in the rain. I get it. I finally get it.
It smells like it rained last night. The grass has leftover pools of water and I’m afraid to look up at the sky. Because you won’t be next to me. And the rain still sounds like us.