This downpour all over me.
The rain from this London storm drips down my face, so lightly. It makes me think of you, and all the times you traced my dimples with your soft fingers, and whispered words every man wants to hear, twirling my hair and tickling my neck, your lipstick finding a home on my chest, your legs intertwining with mine, while that howling wind slapped the rain on the window, the window alive from the heat of us, all the foggy words we wrote into it, like I love you, a million times over, until there was no more fog left in the pane, until I held your chin and brought you closer to me so I could feel your breath, and could see that sparkling smile in your eyes which always reminded me of falling in love with you in California.
I stare up into this London rain, not looking for shelter, but standing in the middle of it all, small puddles collecting around my feet, a newspaper blown from a stack near the corner street flipping by lifelessly. I think how sad that journalists in this London town have never met you, because maybe then they would stop pretending to make up the news, and would realize that writing of the way your hair glistens in rainfall is more inspiring than a thousand journalistic words; or how that affectionate pinch you give after you’ve had a few glasses of wine could lift up this dreary town and lift up all these people who look down at their feet with umbrellas protecting them from the rain that should fall on their faces; the people who slip and slide on these cobblestone streets while I slip and slide on this rainfall of you, soaked to the bone, wet and wild and the ferocious look on my face, the kind I get when I can’t fix something, this anger fit like the crazy black clouds overhead that send down all these torrents of rain, shadowing this London canvas with greys and muted colors that conspire to hide the sun.
And right when I am about to explode, right when everything is about to melt into a muddled blur no artist can paint with, the blue sky peeks from behind the clouds- like a child tiptoeing in midnight, quietly peaceful, so innocent, these blues- and fights the grey storm heroically, if only to give me a brief glimpse of the sun, to remind me that yes, you are gone, that yes, I am okay, that yes, I am finally living the kind of life I have meant to check off that list I have kept in the drawer of sometimes hiding optimism.