A kiss in the pouring rain. At least the rain might mask the tears.
Maybe in another moment I’d feel her touch again, but it was buried in the torrent. Happiness drifted away through finger tips that refused to close completely, and all that was left was that peculiar emptiness that we’d always hated, always raged against, the ennui of our generation and that brief moment of fulfillment, gone again.
I’d feel the touch of her skin again on mine one day, or perhaps not. Maybe in another moment I would feel something other than the pound of off warm rain and the sting of acid across bruises, but for now we just stared at each other, awkwardly waiting for the moment when someone would find something to say, perhaps plucking it from the clouds.
But we couldn’t find anything at all, and I, she, we couldn’t help but fumble even this last moment. Was it stubborness to avoid the words that we should say? Was it my fault? Her fault? Or merely time at all?
I wished it would thunder if only for something to break that eerie stillness so that we might share one more thing in common apart from the tension.
Then she I turned away, and there was no we, not anymore, and there was no sensation, not anymore, except for the rolling drops thick and heavy on my clothes.
And then she was gone and everything else drowned out.