The rain, they say, washes the slate clean.
Today, raindrops ran down the glass in races--like tears; like snakes on the windowpane.
In contrast, the river was a flat, blank slate of steely grey.
Subtle signs of Troy float across the atmosphere to me; I seem to attract them. Or perhaps I am the only one who notices because I am the only one who cares.
(a thought.)
Today, a mop of fresh hair, and a scent on an exposed shoulder of cinnamon and sweat and leather.
It wasn't Troy, but it was close.
There was warmth.
1 comment:
They (well Eden) also say that rain as well as washing the slate clean, can cleanse your soul if you let it absorb into your skin.
Maybe every raindrop represents a different feeling or emotion.
Maybe the rain can wash away the Troy’s and Charlie’s and leave you with only yourself?
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