This subject is trite. And yet I cannot stop myself from writing another piece about the soft raindrops falling outside, the pitter-patter on my roof, the way it makes me feel.
The unfortunate truth about this is that it is true, completely true. The rain whets my lust. I want you most on days like this, on days when I sit beside you as we drive to some sort of bliss, with windshield wipers, and the grey comfort of clouds, no reason to venture beyond this shelter on a day like this, after all. I could have you all to myself, then, here.
I remember days like this, yearn for them once more, the thrill.
The thrill of the warmth, yes, but the wet, the unrelenting wet as I go out in spite of you without my umbrella. You feel compelled to follow me, to chase me, running, to find me, finally, to kiss me, here, in this cool rain, in my wet warmth, my excuse to undress you, to kiss your head, to warm you then, in showers, warm showers, to embrace you here, beneath the warm water, the slick wish, oh yes, I’ll say it now, I want you, I want you now.
But, of course, this being a trite exercise in writing about rain, in writing–really–I am aware of the distant, the intangible. And still…
And still, it is urgent, this desire. It is urgent, to me, to want you, to want you to want me, to want rain, to want wet, what, where, when?