Rain Clouds

“I bet you’ve got a million stories in that brain of yours,” a deep voice says from beside me, its source looking out into the rain like I was.

It was one of those days where it rained waterfalls but somewhere in the distance you could see the sun stubbornly fighting its way free of the clouds. 

I stare blankly into the curtain of raindrops; the fourth floor’s glass windows giving me the complete view of the city rooftops, all up to the boulevard.

“They’re all sad, at the moment,” I answer, my voice low and measured, “But what does it matter?”I see him give a small smile from the corner of my eyes, he crosses his arms over the black long-sleeved shirt he has on; I fidget with the gray sleeves of my sweater, the sequined blue front of it catching the fluorescent lights. 

He looks at me now, and I wonder what he sees.Does he see the mane of unruly wavy hair that puffs up around my head like an insufferable halo of black, red and brown? Does he see the awkward young woman, the sweater she bought two years ago struggling to hug her shoulders? Does he know I bought the wrong size? Can he see that? Does he see the perfectly lined eyes and painted lips? Does he see the shell that I show the world; all perfect and unbroken in a sweater, skinny jeans and red sneakers? Or does he see more? God, I hope he doesn’t see any more.

“What’s your name?” he asks, and I can tell he’s fighting back a smile by the tone of his voice.

“Does it matter?” I ask back, I’m being bitchy today, and I wonder at myself. It’s not like he’s doing anything wrong, and what’s in a name, anyway? What’s in my name?

He shrugs, “It doesn’t, really,” then he raises a hand and runs it through unruly brown curls, making it even more of a mess, “but it’s better than ‘girl staring pensively out the window’.”

I have to smile at that. Pensively. Who says that? “I kind of like ‘girl staring pensively out the window’,” I tease, a small smile now forming on my lips, “it has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? It’s… unique.”

“I guess,” I still haven’t looked at him directly, I’m afraid he’ll see my eyes are blank and light-less, “so what’s your story, morning glory?”

“Oasis, 1995,” I answer, and this time I look at him, “Do I know you?” I try to place his features, and realize that I do. Same lean frame, same black top on black jeans with black sneakers combo, same dark brown dancing eyes, same smile, shorter haircut.

“I don’t know, do you?” he quirks a brow; same “I will answer your question with another question” attitude.

“Do you know me?” I ask, and I feel a little bit of life creep back into my veins. He must see it in my eyes, because his smile widens.

“I thought I did, once,” he stuffs his hands in his pockets, “I’m not sure now.”

I laugh, or at least I try to, it just comes out like a sad, sarcastic chuckle, “I thought I did, too.”

“Story?” he requests, his pretty head tilting to the side expectantly.

“I have none you’d be happy to hear,” I tell him as I turn back to the window, the sunshine’s gone now. I guess sometimes you just have to give in to the sadness.

He follows my line of sight, and sighs, “You know it’s not going to keep raining, right?”

“Is it?” I look at him, and his brows furrow in concern. I know he sees the blankness, the absolute void I have allowed myself to be thrown into.

“You used to know that,” he frowns.

“I thought I knew many things,” I shake my head, “Turns out half of them were lies and the others were make believe.”

“You don’t believe that,” he grins knowingly, “You want to, because it’s easier and it will hurt less, but you don’t believe that.”

I scoff, “You know me better than I know myself, then?”

“No, I just know you,” he shoves my shoulder lightly, “Come on, a story.”

“They’re all sad, at the moment, I told you,” I sighed in exasperation.

“So?” he insists, “At least you have a story.”

“There are no stories for you here,” I look at my shoes, ashamed. There are no stories for me here, either.

“Tell me your sad stories,” he says softly. I look up and see he has moved a few steps closer, “We’ll make them happy again.”

“We can’t,” I tell him, tears stinging my eyes, because he’s right. I don’t believe in the darkness and the void. It would have been so easy, to throw it all away, to succumb to it all. But I love too much, feel too much to be able to give up, and it’s the fighting against the sadness that hurts.

“You don’t believe that,” he whispers.He’s right again. So I look into his eyes and see the recognition there. I don’t know how he can tell that the light is seeping back into me amidst the cold weather, but he’s found me again.

“Fine,” I give in, allowing a small sincere smile, “Let’s get some coffee then.”

He laughs at his little victory and loops his arm in mine.

So I start with the stories, and bit by bit, the sunshine starts to filter through the clouds, and the dark winds start to die down… and I slowly stop existing and start living again.

Opposites and Synonyms

It's a storm inside this heart, underneath the chest muscles and the bones, and the self-made fortresses. It's a hurricane in this brain, under the hair, the skin, the skull, the obvious consciousness. It's a mess, this body under the perfectly pressed clothes, under the practiced smiles and lined eyes and painted lips. It's the ocean and the shore, and mountains upon mountains of ashes buried underneath the waves, it's salt and tears and cold whipping winds. 

It's not simple underneath this deconstructed facade, it's death and blood, despair and the moon pulling the tides to and fro. It's lullabies and screaming songs, soft strums and wailing electric guitars, it's red roses in pretty vases and forests of giant trees at the same time. It's the tiniest kitten with the loudest roar, and the battle-scarred wolf with the softest heart, it's opposites and synonyms rhyming all at once and never again.

It's a mess inside this body, it's all bruises and self-inflicted wounds. It's casket upon casket of dead selves with flowers sprouting from breathless chests and hearts clutched in frozen fingers. It's where the world ends and where it begins, and it's the meadows in spring and the deserts in summer, it's the rushing river and the dry river beds. It's the thunder storms and the shining sun, and they're all together and separated; and it's every bit confusing and every bit beautiful and fearsome at the same time. 

It's reds and blues, greens and oranges, purples and yellows, and blacks and whites all together, in equal measures. It's the tempest and the calm ocean, it's flame and ice, it's life and death; and it's underneath our skin, below the muscles, the tendons, the arteries, the blood, the bone, the marrow. It's in our souls and the mitochondria of our cells. It's who we are, who we want to be, who we are not, and who we become. It's our storm, and our hurricanes, and our mess; and it's glorious.

The Horrible Boy Who Made Me Laugh

I fell in love once, just once, just the one time. At least it was as close to love as I thought I would ever get, I still think it is. You see, I fell in love with a boy who had a mind full of thunderstorms, hands like roses, and a silver tongue that stung.

He was not like the sunset, although his eyes did turn molten gold in early morning light. He wasn't an Adonis, and neither was he a Hercules. But his wit was as sharp as the arrows that flew from bows in the stories of myth, and his laugh felt like the rain on a day when the sun would shine so hot, the sidewalks seemed to melt. He was a horrible person, really. Spoiled and overly self-confident, he took his intelligence and used it as a weapon. He was underhanded and mean spirited, and made me feel like shit half the time.

But he made me laugh, and that was very important for me, at the time. All I wanted was someone who made me laugh. I felt horrible about myself already, anything he said, or did, did not hurt, at least not so much. He also read the same books I did, and as a teenage bookworm in an age where the boys thought reading was uncool and nerdy, he was a Godsend. He was opinionated, and unafraid to say what he thought, which, most of the time, was what I thought as well. He made me question things, he made me question everything, and he pushed me. Well, he pushed me away in the most hurtful way possible, but apart from that, he pushed me to do things I never would have. He challenged me, literally. When I'd tell him I wasn't sure of doing something he'd say "I'm doing it, so I guess if I get it I'm going to be better than you." He didn't get it, I did. Because he told me to.

He also intimidated me, and that is no mean feat, I may have hated myself, but I knew my views and my opinions and I knew how to voice them eloquently. I could intimidate the best of them, but him, I couldn't. He'd brush it off, and laugh in my face. It was refreshing. He had scathing retort after every scathing opinion, and he hurt my feelings at least three times every week, but he'd come up and wrap an arm around me when he knew he'd gone too far. He never said sorry, the unapologetic bastard. All he would do is sit next to me on the bench, and put an arm around my shoulders, or lean on me for a few minutes, transferring some of his warmth; and for some reason, I didn't need his apologies, I didn't want them. We'd sit there in silence, with him sometimes nudging my shoulder with his, or poking me in the ribs until I cracked a smile or pushed him away. He liked when I pushed, he'd laugh and then do it again until I started talking to him.

He read my poetry, and gave me constructive feedback, he drew at the back of my notebooks, and made me feel safe enough to say what I really felt, in the language that I could express myself best. He UNDERSTOOD. I could get lost in the stories he would spin, the way we talked about books and movies, and people we did not like. Every day would find me waiting for him because for once in my life, I valued someone else's opinion over my own. He slowly started to feel like home, like a white picket fence and a small two-bedroom house. I fell in love with him. I didn't realize it then, but I was.

Needless to say, he broke my heart and it felt like a punch to the gut. I was winded. But I didn't show it. I knew, you see, I knew. I was not his type. I was the furthest away from his type. But, God, do I miss the bastard. I don't hear his laugh anymore, we don't even talk. He's too far away for that, and I've pretty much severed that connection. What was the point of remaining friends if he still made me feel like shit at least three times a week, and he wasn't there to put his arm around me anymore?

I grew up, I guess. I love myself more now, and it's taken me 22 years to do that. I'll be damned if I let some boy bring me down again.

Orange Sunsets

I've always wanted a guy whose favorite color was orange. I think it's because I am so in love with the color purple (obviously), and sunsets. That doesn't make any sense, but let me explain. See, purple and orange only look good in sunsets, and sunsets are my favorite thing in the sky. Because I'm not just saying wispy, light purple and the peach tones of a sunrise; I am talking about the flash of bright, strong orange against the darkening purple sky as the day ends, the majesty of the sun's exit, how it is all bright and dark at the same time, it ushers in the night with such brilliance every day without fail.

Now to have the color orange as a favorite color isn't really a big deal, you know? I just think it would be a nice... well I just think it would be nice. It's one of those little things that don't really matter, but if it was there, it would make you a bit happier, you know? Anyway, so, yeah, the color orange, and sunsets.

I rather do like endings compared to beginnings. I mean, if you start something, it's so much work, you lay down the foundations, you build it up, revise, attach, create, add, continue slowly, oh so slowly, so that you don't mess up. It's the same with sunrises, don't you think? It's slow, and sweet, and light, then it builds up until it's high noon and the sun is blazing above and making you sweat and swear. But with endings, oh, the ENDINGS! Aren't they just marvelous? Every single thing you have done, you have worked for, culminating in a giant blast of color only to suddenly turn black. The drama, the theatricality, the beauty of it all! And you can choose! It's either bright oranges and dark purples, and Pomelo pinks with tinges of bright yellow, or dark blues with ribbons of yellows and oranges fading into the violet sky.

I like endings. I don't know what that says about me, I am pretty sure there's a psychological something or other about this, but I don't really care and I am not inclined to find out. I just like the color purple, and the way it blends so beautifully with the orange at the end of the day, that's all.