watching rain come down on the ocean in mexico. the cards you’re using to play gin rummy are a little sandy and damp. the corona is cold.
watching rain dump on a flimsy awning over the seattle coffee shop door. watching it slap onto the cement sidewalk and rush into the street grate. you wonder how long before the fabric rips… but your mug is filled with steaming brown liquid and your sweater feels warm.
watching rain outside the irish studio window, drenching the open face blooms and making all the green glisten.
watching rain make a million tiny craters in the sand on a south carolina coastline, but you’re still warm in your swimsuit and music still pulses from the mainstage. the skyfall isn’t cold.
what state are you in to not remember these glories at all times? who is shutting and locking the door to these treasures when you think the rain in your mind is to be feared.
