DISCLAIMER: All I own is words that come to me when I look at the rain; i.e. not CW's The Secret Circle or Panic! At the Disco's Northern Downpour.
You used to love the rain, now you're not so sure. It's been five months since you conjured up a storm; still it haunts your every dream, every thought, every fantasy – the surge of power you'd revelled in feels hollow now, what haunts you is – what creeps its way into your every moment – the heart-stopping, gut-wrenching fear that had, and still when you wake screaming in the night occasionally still does, consumed you when your perfect tempest had spiralled from your control. Under other circumstances, it wouldn't have bothered you – ha, bothered; as if that even begins cover what it did to you – in fact, you'd most likely have loved it. Absolutely adored the the chaos. It's what drives you. Chaos and danger and fire and thunder.
But she had to ruin it. She had to run through the maelstrom, calling your name. She had to get herself nearly killed trying to snap you out of your euphoria. To be the order to your chaos. The courage to your coward. You think it was the flash of hope that caused the loss of control. She ran through the rain to make you hope and it was almost her end. You'd laugh at the irony, but mostly you're just angry. Idly you sometimes wonder if it's a punishment for tampering with things no man ever should. It's been five months since you conjured up that storm and still its dominion of your mind is complete; memories and what ifs beat down on you like the storm that started it.
You used to love the rain. Now you're not so sure.