(Sometime in 1990)
i was awakened by the cold. White light
turned blue from the night cloaked the
immense expanse lying in front of me. I
reached for a cigarette when my arm brushed
ever so lightly across a woman’s back, sending
vivid recollections of other nights, other
rooms, the same woman. Sparks then a
flame momentarily erased the wriggling
shadows of raindrops from her back,
revealing curves any man cannot help but
kiss. The valley running down her spine to
her buttocks never ceased to avoid my touch.
She brushed my hand off and huddled closer.
“I love you,” I whisper, testing her asleepness.
She makes no response. I am awake in this
bed in my studio at age 26, listening to the
rain. In the square of a window at my side
radiates a solitary streetlamp’s illumination,
confirming the rain’s existence as its light
turns each raindrop within reach into a
crystal as it journeys earthbound. I love the
rain, especially at night when the darkness
hides urban concrete in its shadows and
leaves man’s imagination free to explore in
its solitude and silence.
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