When it is raining, they say God is crying. And for some reason, when there is thunder God is bowling. When there is lightning God gets a strike. You think God does none of these things, that he does not exist. You have been wronged too many times for it to be true. But the rain is so wonderful. The two-paned window calls to me, raindrops clinging to it for dear life until they slowly drip down closer to fate. I look at the rain and wish to let it cleanse me.I wish I could feel every little drop hit my bare skin. I wish to bask in my incapability to count each drip down my flesh, to remember the magnificence of insignificance. I wish to be washed by the rain while you tell me you don’t believe in God.
I am in your room, alone, and it is raining. Your room doesn’t have many decorations because your presence would overwhelm posters and rugs and bookshelves. Sitting on your plush and lived-in bedding, the minimalistic pattern of tiny white squares and black outlines is overtaking me. I wish to count every box but remember that that’s impossible. I feel like a small little thing.
Your closet is open, you have certain things you like to wear. I think about the cold fall weather, and how when October starts to get shivery, you return to a regiment of sweaters and some type of thrifted pants. When you’re feeling fancy, or you have somewhere nice to go, you will layer a button-up dress shirt under the sweater. I go to look at all the sweaters and find my favorite. It is made of itchy yarn and is a bit oversized for even you to fit in. I undress completely to put it on. I wish to count the stitches knit by a stranger, but I remember I could never do such a thing. I feel so many good things when I remember this sweater is dry-clean only. I sit on the wood floor. Everyday, it still feels like the first day you told me you loved me.
-Ross Calabro