The Rain Doesn’t Call, It Doesn’t Write

About three weeks ago I awoke from a light sleep to the gentle sound of memories against my windowpane. It was rain, a sprinkle really, but it may as well have been a ghost floating by in the night.

The ground was dry by morning.

Now, other than that briefest of wet dreams, I cannot for the life of me recall what a raindrop tastes like, or how the cold streams feel against the roof of my mouth as I stand beneath it and call its name.

I await the rain like a child prays for snow. I am hot and I am tired.

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