When it rains, I don’t know what to do. Just get wet I guess. I’ve sworn off umbrellas as some sort of comedic act of heroic stubborness; as if there is meaning in getting drenched beyond discomfort and a sour mood. I’ve been happy in rain before but rarely in a cold season. The puddles that stay for the day are curbside rivers that splash on you like a dirty wave as the city bus barrels by and laughs exhaust.
In the place you stay long enough to know where planes pass over head, you will find a damp sorrow; soggy and heavy in your clothes. In your haste to chase fulfillment, you may stomp a sad puddle right up your pant legs. But we all have to tread somewhere. We have to call our footsteps a city. We’ll never love every stride. What was I thinking putting my feet down so certainly in such a dark water well? Raindrops make it look so easy; like heavens divers leaving an echo of perfect rings on a pothole lake, covered in oil rainbows. If we could come and go like that. But we drop harder.