When it rains.

The world hushes itself in the wake of the storm,

air humming electric,

a silver-threaded symphony in accord—

the kind that stills the trees

and quickens my pulse.

*

Little me loved the rain.

Loved the way the sky cracked open,

spilling stories in rivulets against my window,

whispering secrets only I could hear.

Thunder rolled like a distant drumbeat,

a song only the brave understood.

Lightning sparks,

exhilarates me—

a fleeting fire

like a pistol threading the dark,

sending shivers through my body in the most euphoric way.

And I was never afraid.

*

Because, I was safe….

wrapped in cotton cocoons,

breathing in the scent of fresh earth and petrichor,

listening to the heartbeat of the world

as if it had slowed down just for me.

As if time had folded in on itself,

and I had been given this moment as a gift.

*

But now—

now I listen through speakers,

static raindrops humming artificial against my ears.

I wrap myself in bedsheets, close my eyes,

pretend I can hear it outside my window,

pretend the air is thick with something more than memory.

*

Oh, how I wish it would rain.

How I wish the sky would shatter open again,

filling the streets, the gutters, the spaces between my ribs.

How I wish I could feel safe again,

in my home, in my head, in my bed.

*

But the rain is scarce,

and so is my solace.

And no matter how tightly I wrap myself,

it is never quite the same.

*

But still…

one day, I’ll find that feeling again.

*

(I retreat beneath my covers, turn my thunder and rainstorm sounds all the way up.)