There’s nothing like spring sleet. Rain. Whatever.
What do rain and this relationship have in common? They’re both momentary.
“Stop smelling yourself.”
I’m smelling the rain. Delicious.
Cookies and cream delicious.
“I could eat that up.”
“You don’t even know what she tastes like, and she will flavor your entire night.”
I’m not a puddle to be splashed through. I am single raindrop, colliding with memories of past dews, falling upon black pavement- my home for a minute- only to be evaporated again.
You cannot capture the rain.