April 27, 2006
Violently Rainy
Today, I am the rain. I am smashed against the window - clank - then roll down it; down, down, merging with the surface, then clank! against the glass again. Over and over, until this motion is all that I feel, everything I hear.
I am anticipation. That’s what rain is - its shape - my shape molds into the surface, hard landing being softened by the non-curves on the way. Fast breaks and slow motion affairs, I slide into new places, never reaching, always almost there.
The man in the white coat crossed his fingers and said that if all goes well, I’ll jump to the Moon soon. There and back, jumping all the way.
Rain doesn’t land light; it bangs down hard in a head-on collision. This is not my sky.
I roll down the glass slowly, drinking surfaces, and I cannot hold on to any of it. I can’t hold on to anything, and I am afraid.
This is just today, though. When you’re around, your skin polarises me, and I sink sharp claws into it, merging textures until they match. Or don’t match. But at the very least, they meet - they melt into each fiber, into each other, satiated until drunk of sunlight and the colours of heat.