After the rain has stopped

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

Sunlight pours through the window after the heavy rain has stopped, streaks like tears running down every pane, the air thick with wisps of shredded cloud like torn bed sheets after a long hard night’s bliss, the moist kiss from morning’s lips lingers on the tips of fingers that touch the glass.

To ask for more to pour over me when I have already asked for too much is too much to ask for: the locked window through which I see to unlock for me, to dream of rising sun and rain, to kiss and be kissed by a gust of wind. What fair thing is this after so much bliss, the night stalked day because it has lost not its taste for daylight or rain, but because enough is never enough. Even when gorged, it aches for more.

The gray day changes to streaked blue with bright skies and the chirp of birds leaping in the wet leaves, shaking loose the last drips my thirsty lips ache to sip, but lost beyond this streaked glass and window that will not open to such clumsy fingers as mine.

How do I breathe with air so heavy as this, this aching for release, this need to reach out and feel what is real even if it is to steal a piece of the beyond?

What life can we lead that will relieve the doubt of what exists beyond this glass, or keeps us trapped on this side or that, on inside or out, touching not the real air, but the chill window that makes all unreachable, too scared to smash what we cannot open, praying perhaps that the rain will come again and wash away these streaks on the inside and out.