it rained today

By Caroline Wolff

it rained today and
i remembered the way
you and me
synced souls under a persimmon tree;
the angels wept with joy that day,
and so we twirled under their torrents 
of tears that did not fall for us
but still captured every word i’ve ever wanted to say.
the moon cast 
intoxicating indigo shadows
like a spotlight 
on the sidewalk where we stood,
and in your embrace, 
my fear of thunderstorms faded for good.
because memories of mud 
on the cuffs of my jeans,
the uncomfortable cling 
of my rain jacket’s soaked sleeves,
no umbrellas except for the dampened, dancing leaves, 
always shield me from 
the wet, the cold, the wind, and the lightning.

it rained today and 
suddenly, i was curled up with you 
on a tattered, squeaking armchair,
with warm, woolen blankets and sopping, stringy hair.
the perfume of petrichor on your fingertips,
the mossy droplets still lingering on my lips. 
and in your darkened family room, the breakfast club blared;
we did not pay attention.
the familiar melodies of the credits song
massaged our aching joints.
our clothes were laid out side by side to dry
on a blush bedsheet you stole from your sister.
i found the red of your rain jacket
and the blue of my eyes
in the remnants of a rainbow;
purple was always my favorite color,
and in that moment, for more reasons than one.

it rained today and 
the drops collected 
on my eyelashes,
fell to my cheeks as i blinked,
and rolled down like tears.
but still, i smiled 
for you.
for the red-haired girl who took my place
in your polaroids.
for all the letters i wrote to you 
still sitting unopened on your nightstand.
for scholarships and skate parks,
for skylines and shoebox apartments.
i know you’re on the east coast now,
building palaces out of pocket change,
and maybe i’m slowly learning to do the same.
4 years of open floodgates have torn up my town,
so i’ll erase you from my blueprint and choose a new name.