pyrexia rain

It rains, and I think of you.

Water, racing across the window, sculpts the shadows that fall across my desk; my fingers trace the changing landscape, following the dark lines, and I remember.

I remember the way the rain tasted on your skin. I remember how it trickled down your stomach, your breasts providing a cool alcove while I knelt, cheek pressed to your bare skin. I turned my head upwards to catch the drops of rain as they slid over your curves and onto my waiting lips.

I drank you in.

In my study, I can hear the rain, tapping at the glass of the window, and when I open it, just a crack, I can hear the soft roar of the creek outside as it comes to life. Normally a quiet, lazy, memory of a stream, the torrential downpour has awoken it.

I listen, and I remember.

I remember hearing your heartbeat as I stood, my head resting on your chest, and it sounded like the roaring creek outside, as if we were rushing towards concupiscence and that if we didn't let go, the moment would crash through us, leaving us tangled, the space between us lost.

But we didn't let go. We clung together, eager to drown in each other's heat, our desire turning to ferocious need, our legs and arms clasped tightly; you were no longer simply rain-wet, you were fever-drenched, and I felt you tremble and quake against me.

Eventually the rain passed. And, after I had kissed the rain from your lips, after your fingers had brushed my wet hair back away from my face so that you could see my eyes again, we let go, reluctantly, unsure, just a bit awkward, as we attempted to find our footing alone.

I remember.

But you are not here, now, and I have only the memory of rain, the shadow of rain, to remind me.