The sky is drawn in shades of dark gray.
It’s not raining.
The creek behind my townhouse has kissed its borders. rising to annex the banks to either side. It is awake and alive.
It’s not raining.
The road is a slick black sheen, a velvet pathway, and I can lose myself in the rhythm of the wiper blades.
It’s not raining.
My face is wet, scattered drops brushed aside by hand.
It’s not raining.
If it were raining, you would be here.
I would be watching the silhouette on the wall of your shirt being drawn over your head. I would be able to taste salt rain drops on your shoulders, feel you arch against my palms.
But you’re not here.
And it’s not raining.