The blue taste of rain

I never carry an umbrella. I know you don’t too.

I should have known better. We talked like there was no tomorrow. There really was no tomorrow.

When I walked out of the uniformly frozen room and found the air outside swollen pregnant with the rain, I ran down the stairs.

You never accepted my silent love. You demanded words. Jealously. Tantrums. But I never could act.



It was an unexpected summer rain.

When you told me ever so casually that you’d found a friend, I’d pretended the same nonchalant casualness.



The earth devoured the plump, wet drops with unbecoming eagerness.

Of course I was nice to her. You should have understood I didn’t like her.

The dust settled down with a sigh. Defeat. Acceptance. Maybe even approbation.

I saw you kiss her. I never told you I did.
That’s when I stopped loving you and began pretending to. I scorn your foolishness.



The imperfectly perfect drops touched my tired body.

You stand waiting for me without an umbrella. I despise you for pretending to love the rain because I do.

I dismiss the myth of tear shaped raindrops.

I also dismiss the myth of true love.