六月の雨
PT: So this based off the song, 六月的雨，from this Chinese TV show called Chinese Paladin. (Translation: June's Rain.) And, well...I happen to like this song and another one from the show, so...-shrugs- It wouldn't stop raining in July. Like fuck. Like, daily, and it seriously creeped me out. Yeah. June, July—close enough -__- Please be aware that I can't pick out half of the lyrics of the song, so it's not like an actual story following it. The only change I've made in the kanji is to replace 的 with の, so it's Japanese; I find turning the turning the rest into hiragana to be unnecessary and troublesome, and all of it is traditional anyway. So yeah...
Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi Takeshi...yeah, that guy who had probably never set foot in America, let alone, New York...-coughs-
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It was raining again.
Sakuno watched the rain fall, scatter the sky's tears across the land. The sky wept silently, the only sound of the scrambled drops of water. Although it was rabid and biting, there was an ethereal beauty to it, like a dream. An untamed horse in all its glory.
The rain bounced around and on her, on and off; cold; like painless spears. It was almost like it was crying for her, a divine aide in making her happy; a way for her to not feel the pain, and she didn't feel it. But there was a sort of emptiness in her heart, her mind. The hollow feeling spread from the mind to the heart, its boundaries only in the eyes that were displayed and untouched. Soulless.
The tennis racket was cradled in her arms, its red color brilliant and artificial. It was in as good condition as the day it was given to her, and she treasured it enough to keep the racket from touching the ground. It glowed in ruddy contrast to the dark. Neon.
He had indirectly broken her heart.
He had indirectly killed her.
He had indirectly brought her back to life.
Ironically, Sakuno was happy—she was happy that he, at least, noticed her, replied to her weekly letters. No e-mail, just letters—like some old love story, a classic rubbed to cliché. Quiet, powerful words on paper, written at the time of a setting sun, the mind conjuring quiet guitar music as the letter is recited. Pen on paper. The river of wind curling hair back, the cousin of a kite. It waves in midair until the air halts, and it falls back down. Such a sight is conjured to the human mind.
Sakuno never did that...instead, she would write it during the day, in her head before she made it visible on paper. The words were warm and slick in her mind.
The rain fell, and tapped smartly at the ground, Irish jigs.
Lightning did not come tonight—it was not its time, or place.
Sakuno should have felt the cold, for though she shivered, she could only think that her face was wet for the rain, and not any tears—who knew? But water flew, in a strange, twisted sort of cadence. It chilled.
The truth was that she missed him.
She liked him, loved him—and it was puppy love. Puppies rolling about, the female shy and the male simply young. But puppy love is love. Puppy love was love. Puppy love can be everywhere, and she had caught it then. A cool, aloof tennis player, a strong one.
She wondered how big the face was above her, to shed so many tears for the lovers in the world.
She faced the big stretch above her, and accepted every kiss, every word that was exchanged between him and her; and every tender fall was as empty as the last.
A wilted cherry blossom, pressed and papery, tumbled from her hand, and the racket collapsed after.
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The light crackles; a ball of lightning, a globule fire.
The paper lays, thin as rice water, its dead texture growing yellow and yellow and yellow; the ink dries.
PT: -Muses- I think I'll write a RyoSaku based off Memoirs of A Geisha, yes...