Raindrops

That night, I hated the weather. I hated how the raindrops fell one by one every minute or so, like cold careless kisses on my cheek. It was as if the clouds couldn’t decide what to do with all that water pent up inside them – or maybe they didn’t know what to do with the little that was left. I hated that reminder of indecision, that liquid whisper of almost-ness in each descent.

I wished out loud that it would just rain already.

You said: “What’s wrong? It’s okay what.”

But it isn’t, really. It isn’t okay. Goddammit, choose which way you want it, don’t hover in the middle and let hints of a storm slip out and fall through the darkness to tell me, “Look, remember, it’s not always going to be breezy.”

I don’t know how long more I can deal with in-the-middle. I don’t think it’s enough anymore for us – or you and me, to be precise – to just be.

Yet, I know in the end I’m going to take this bargain, I’m going to brush of the raindrops and pretend it’s all sunshine and roses and sharing desserts and wallets and drinks and small talk forever and ever until you leave – that’s the only eternity we have.

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