The Way the Earth Sighed When Kissed by Falling Rain

Sometimes late at night, I dream of you, Your soft touch, how your love caressed me until all the noise, all the uncertainty would vanish. The slow thump of your heart would be all that I heard, a holy rhythm that rocked me to safety. As my voice falters into only a croak of desperation I can still feel the way you would trace my arm. From freckle to freckle you memorized me, a cartographer of my smallest truths: I furrow my brow in concentration, I rub my feet together in anxiety. I had spoken about my mother, but you held my broken soul in your hands, staring at it while everyone else just nodded. As I lay here trapped inside these stark walls that gleam sterile and cold, I am not thinking about the memories whose alcoholic scent would burn my nose. I lay here thinking about you. I lived a life of laughter and soft mornings, the clinking of glasses, the rustle of turning pages, the swell of music carrying me through every chapter. I stitched joy into the seams of my days, waking up to a child's carefree laughter, or the bloom of spring's first daffodil. Now I imagine the warmth of sunlit grass beneath my feet, your calloused hand slowly tracing my thumb, the smell of wild honey carried by a summer breeze, talking about the way the trees tickle our souls. For you are the only one who sees the way the earth sighs when kissed by falling rain.