He tells me
he was tired of waiting for the storms to abate,
so he fell in love with them instead.
I knew him for the way thunder bolted through his veins every time the skies tore up into realms of grey,
and not did he for once look down; it was as though he were commandeered by the weary expanse while the heavens tuned up an orchestra of their own. He listened, and I tried— tried, to pluck the notes and the strains like a wobbly child reaching his palms out to the moon, but the sky rumbled in languages only he could speak in.
He speaks of his love for petrichor, flickering lamp-posts, the way the world collects itself into puddles of water in the ground, the illuminated roadways and reflections, and the moist taste of a midnight cigarette. "It's strange, don't you think? What kills you softly also breathes life into you," and I looked no further than into his eyes. (Author's note: This is of your love for downpours, and my love for you. You are the storm, and the calm. I love you.) .
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