I like the rain.
There are so many different kinds and nothing can ever be the same from one storm to the next. It's always changing, turning; listening to rain can be addicting.
There's misty rain, that sort of hovers and dusts the earth with droplets of something more. It brushes the ground gently, promising care yet still holding the threat of more, to pour and pour and pour.
And there's heavy rain that falls straight down, pushing you into the ground. It feels as though it's trying to plant you, make you prosper. As though it would try and replenish you and make you believe again by washing all the bad away. It would heal you from your sad thoughts and be ready to start again.
But there's also the windy rain. The rain that pushes you from side to side, slicing and cutting away at the soul. Trying to find a way in despite all the barriers that have been erected. Chipping away at your defences and breaking you down until only the core is left that you can attempt to rebuild.
Finally there's thundering rain. The rain that cuts out your thoughts until you can only hear the sky's screams, drowning out the thoughts inside your head. The lightning that always accompanies like the best partner in crime to strike away the past and bad memories. You can hear them dancing through your mind as the growls and flashes dance around each other to a symphony created by their beauty.
Sometimes you get a mix of all the different types at once, or maybe only two. It doesn't matter because despite how different they are they bend and twist together creating art straight from the sky. They cascade through fields and mountains as a gift from the Angels. No one notices when they merge together like one song fading into the next, creating a melody unique from all else. Leaving it to flow through your soul with only the droplets to guide you.
She used to like the rain; it's what drew me to her in the first place. The way she would dance to the patter of the little drops as if their music was the only thing she needed. She would twirl through the sky as it fell from the heavens squealing with delight, as if it fell just for her. She would sit and watch as they raced along the glass as if her cheering pushed them onward like it did me. She felt blessed whenever the clouds would appear and block out the sun, finding beauty in the darkness where others would find only sadness and despair.
She loved the rain, just as much as she loved me. It was in the rain that we first met, laughing as the sky opened and covered us in its tears. Maybe it's fitting, you know. That that's how she left. With her own tears mixing with the drops from the heavens, no longer a blessing but a curse.
Because being in the rain meant being with me, and that's something that drove her to the brink of madness. Maybe that's why she left. Maybe it was only the rain that made her stay.
It's quite fitting if you think about it. It was raining that day. The day the heavens opened up and welcomed her back into their loving grasp, as if greeting a long lost friend. The only regret I have is that I never got to tell her.
I never got to tell her the only reason I liked the rain so much, was watching her come alive when the rest of the world died. And now the world will have to live in death when it rains because her death took the last of the joy from this grey void she left behind.
