she

sometimes you have to #wonder about the #rain. it was one of those times today. i #wondered about the #rain as i lay there on the grass. we always think of #rain in england as a cold, miserable experience, wind blowing it under umbrellas as we gather together outside tube stations and under bus stops. but this is not that #rain. how can the same #water falling from the same #clouds be so different in here? there is no wall, no border. we are still in england. nothing has changed. everything is different. it is warm, a bath that doesn’t #simply surround but floats in the breathless air and sticks to what can only be called #clouds of breath that can’t be seen but can be felt as the swirl around us. i am certain that i will be soaked just as thoroughly by this #rain as i would by the #water that breaks umbrellas and earns the curses of commuters but there is no frustration, no annoyance here. i feel enjoyment in a way that #water in the #sky should never in my mind be capable of creating.

perhaps it is that it is warm. perhaps it is that it is a windless day in a park with the sun surprisingly not blocked by the #clouds that are shrinking as they deposit their bath#water on our bodies, hidden in a grove behind stands of trees, seen by not another person unless they were to part the branches and seek the inside, far enough outside the city that it is unlikely one would even find herself in the field outside the trees while we are here. it may not be the #beauty of the day or the warmth of the #rain that has altered perception of #water droplets and turned them into streaks of oil on the canvas of a picture of a day that i cannot help but #paint in my mind.

it is her. she may not be a work of such oil on as crude a material as sailcloth but her #skin reflects the broken sunlight, refracted through the #water and back to our #eyes, mine dark onyx in the setting sun, hers flecked with a gold that appears only briefly at this time of day. the #sky’s #paintbrush has dipped itself in the moist ink of dreams and #painted itself in droplets on her #skin, warmth radiating out as she lies calmly staring at me in my contemplations of the #rain. she cannot be lost in thought yet she moves not an inch as her #eyes fracture the #rain and touch mine, no mist between them existing for us.

i reach out in the #water and #paint with #fingers become brushes, pressing #water to form lines across the #beauty that i sense more than i see it. #eyes clouded by mist, touch becomes my guide and hers as we #paint the forms of humans, superimposing our images on our #skin, one finger gently following another, sighs and breaths in time. it cannot #simply be the #rain but sometimes you have to #wonder. when #water falls and #fingers brush #skin, #skin brushing #fingers, #lips tasting #water born of the #sky but carried by flesh, it may be that on such a day, there is no need for #rainbows, gold-bearing or fleeting, to light the #sky as sunlight finally falls below the horizon and flesh dips below the meridian in search of a new source of #rain. #beauty is not born of the #rain, nor is it lost when finger#painting dries and darkness overtakes sight. it is #simply refracted and turned from observation to experience, contemplation to sensation, #fingers to #lips, #lips to #skin.

if this is the #rain about which we speak so cautiously yet often in these green fields, i shall never again seek an umbrella but i shall forever #wonder where i left my shoes.

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