It’s raining my dear.
I’m just sitting here in the rain. Thinking of you. Maybe. Maybe not even.
Let’s walk. I can walk in the rain. Oh no, I’ve been down this street before. Let’s go a different way. Oh, what a day; all wet, but warm inside.
Oh that’s a nice shop. Let me go in as if I want to buy something, but really I am just here to smell the soaps and soak up the oak atmosphere. Sweet lady. Oh sweet lady. I will not be buying anything, but I would love to be around you a bit longer. This could be so charming. I shall go now.
The rain is warm. Not on the outside, but on the inside.
Inside rain. That’s it. Let’s make today a poem about inside rain. The warm kind.
Look at this door. This big wooden door. So many lives pass through. So many thoughts. So many lovers. So many. So many. So so many with a heart. Well…. It’s also just a door. The kind of door that smells like oak in the rain.
She gazes at the display. I wonder which item she would pick. I wonder. I wonder; does she even care about it, or is it really the story that counts. I’ll buy it for her. The gift will be that sweet memory from a stranger. She will remember me and the inside rain will be warm. Oh, inside rain. Inside rain. Oh you reign warm on the inside.
What’s that box? Like it’s in the middle of happening. So many stories it carried. And the stories in the stories. I could take them out one by one or I could leave them all lumped up, collected together like all the diaries of a lifetime. There are many of those, there are- Or are there? Oh, the smell of paper. Paper knows what it means to rain inside.
Come, let’s keep walking. Turn the corner. To the plaza. Have I been here before? With somebody else? Or am I somebody else today. Why is the sun shining here? It feels fake. I want rain again. Beautiful, beautiful inside rain.
