rain.

softly splashing down upon the eaves of your house,

the sky,

matching the grey shade of your eyes,

as you stood in the rain,

your element,

you used to say,

clad in a grey sweatshirt,

that fading blue pair of jeans I bought you last summer,

brown Doc Martins,

laced up.

I notice one lace trailing in a puddle,

hands shoved deep inside your pocket,

like that last fair,

you wanted to buy me a present,

but had no money.

the half-smile,

always dangling over your lips,

laughter dancing in your eyes,

as the rain,

slides slowly through your tousled hair.

no sunlight reached your mind,

you were happiest in the rain,

to get wet.

helped you think, you told me,

torrents,

sheets,

grey, translucent rain,

sloppily charging down from the skies,

separating,

parting,

like a sheet of glass.

I am dry,

holding a red umbrella.

you always loved the cold,

wore shades of grey,

like an embodiment of rain itself,

watching you,

standing in the rain,

that last photo we took,

me holding the camera,

in shelter,

while you walked away.

--By Yue Lin, 'Inspiration from Rain.'

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