On rainy days I think of you fondly.
I think of sitting on windowsills and pressing our noses against the screen, counting cars on the BQE.
I always thought the steady stream of traffic sounded like the ocean and it calms me just the same.
Wheels zipping through puddles, the cacophony of air brakes and beeping car horns.
And us settled inside, watching them pass from the safety of our little place.
Inside everything feels as if it’s shrouded in softness, lit only by a stained glass bulb under a gauzy lamp shade.
There are books on the bed, coffee cups on the end table, clothes spread on every inch of bare floor.
We are in varying states of undress, in fluctuating states of consciousness, but in constant and consistent love.
We’ll break for beers nearby, to walk the shimmering streets. The street lamps are on and cast a glow similar to the one at home. The cars still speed through puddles and we are still at peace. And I think, “maybe home really is wherever I’m with you.”
But you say it out loud first, you’re always the one to say what I was thinking.
I squeeze your hand tighter and smile back at you. I could never quite say how I felt the way that you could. But you understood—told me that I spoke through my kisses and that you loved learning the language. You were close to fluent when you left.
There’s still so much I want to tell you. I hope to get home soon.
