Soft distant crashing, it is, at first, the far off reminders of extreme weather, you.
It is raining now, as I look down, this familiar scene of streets and cars, so familiar as to seem by now a commonplace… that stereotypical romantic scene where we kiss in rain, then come inside all wet, now warm. It is lovely to think of such things, trite though they are in theory.
I want to find the passion in the rain as I once did, want to be thrilled by the garters I fasten in the morning as I head out the door (expecting still great things). And so it is, I have become spoiled by grand attentions, by reaching heights I never imagined possible.
La chair est triste?
Surely not, and there are books yet to read, it is true.
Surely there is pleasure here between the sheets, between the moments, between glances, between rocks and hard places, between the lines…