When Soft Rains Fall

In just a sheer dragonfly blouse and her worn down jeans, she steps outside into the light rain and begins walking. The moonlight makes her seem even more pale and fragile. I am compelled to follow her, as if she were a siren silently beckoning me. A block later she stops in a park filled with pale purple flowers, the color of her radiant eyes. By now, she is soaked with pure water, a simple innocence never to be forgotten. Long black hair flows down her back, free like a dove swooping joyfully in the clear blue sky. She tilts her head back to embrace the purity and joy of soft rain. She turns around, opening her eyes. From my hiding spot in the dark, forbidden shadows, I can see that her long black eyelashes have been sprinkled lightly with tiny clear droplets. Again, she closes her eyes for a moment, and spreads her arms as if she were flying freely. I can almost see a pair of soft white wings unfolding themselves and setting her free among fluffy clouds. My heart soars with her. After a few moments, her chin comes parallel with the ground. Her eyes are squeezed shut. Lines of sorrow cross her forehead. Tears - yes, tears - stream down her delicate complexion and mingle sorrowfully with raindrops. She rubs her eyes, and then quickly starts to shuffle away. Her hands are in her pockets. She is cold. I shiver as well. I wish to reach out to her, tell her how I feel. But I am forced to conceal my feelings and leave her in the cold. She will be better off without me, I think. Even if I am incorrect, I must leave her in the cold for now. Soon, she is out of sight. I dare not follow her. Huddled in my damp, lonely corner, I know that she will know the truth and we will meet again . . . when soft rains fall.