Rain is my favorite. I love the smell and the feel and the sound. It is a lovely thing to sit on a screened in porch and watch and hear the dropplets or lay in the grass during a thunderstorm and watch and hear and feel the bullet-like tears pouring down the sky’s face. Rain makes everything clean. It is just like a natural restart button. It is the rain that I have been thinking of. I’d love to sleep under a plush blanket of snow or stretch out to feel the sun kissing me on a beach, but it is the rain I have been thinking of. Maybe it is a parallel with my seemingly constant tears. Maybe it is a demonstration of my unending agony. I force this upon myself, upon the spidey sense. Kill a spider and it will rain. Is it possible that all this time I haven’t noticed that I am actually dead? There are so many instances that could have easily lead to my demise. The tears come like a fervent rain day after day. Did the rain wash the spider out? I need the rain like I need to cut away the webbing. I drown the spider just like I suffocated it in the sticky webs of my heart. Out came the sun and dried up all the rain, so the itsy bitsy spider climbed up the spout again… no I didn’t. The sun never came. The rain has not stopped. I am still trapped deep in the spout. Deep in the spout.