The Rain

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.


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