I don’t like the rain, Marcus. Cold and wet and loud, screaming in so many dialects on metal and tile and plastic and concrete. Claiming every bench, every canopy, every ugly overhang, crying for attention, leaving a putrid, stinking mess behind.
He watches the lightning flash. A storm, inside and out. It is the theatre of the sky. She is Portia and Ophelia and Juliet all at once. And she wants to tell her whole story. Pouring her heart out for everyone to hear.
No one can tell their entire story Marcus. There’s always something dark, some little terrible thing, some big wonderful thing that you keep to yourself. The story is complete without it and you are incomplete, knowing it still remains inside.
The sky holds back some rain too, and when the light is just right, she turns it into rainbows.
I find a smile. How will you know the perfect light?
By letting it find the shadows in your heart.
when the tall grass bends
a delicate whiff
of wildflower dreams