there are so many types of rain
light rain, heavy rain
spring rain, summer rain

the kind of rain
that make you want to
curl up with a good book,
the kind the races down
your car window
as you look out at
the tall trees whizzing by

rain that you kiss in,
rain that makes you feel alone
sometimes it smells of
new beginnings
and sometimes it feels like
you’re drowning

and the eventually,
it stops
and you can hardly remember
if you even like rain
at all

library books;
     the musty smell floods me with
     thoughts of its past readers
     did a girl like me
     run her finger across this line
     as i have?
     will our lines like vines
     ever intertwine?

rainy nights;
     while the tip-tap and dribble of
     droplets hit my windowsill,
     i imagine gusts of wind
     dancing with one another:
     carless and free
     and without destination

light touches;
     the accidental bump of elbows,
     the awkward entanglement
     of fumbling phalanges,
     a gentle squeeze of the hand,
     a comforting gesture that says
     “i am here.”

now reverie this:
     you and i,
     the spines of our books broken,
          our shoulders barely brushing,
               the sound of soft and subtle raindrops
          all things i adore in one simple
      and seemingly endless moment

books, rain, touches, and you

there once was a young girl with green eyes
who wore her soft blond hair
in braided pigtails

at the age of seven,
she watched her older sister
stand in front of the mirror before school
and pinch her stomach with a disgusted face
          neither of them ate breakfast that morning

at the age of nine,
she watched her older brother
make fun of a girl with glasses
for reading on the bus
          she went home and hid all her books in the attic

at the age of twelve,
she watched the older girls at school
with straight hair and short skirts
put makeup on in the bathroom
and discuss how boys would only like you
if you looked perfect, like them
          the next day she arrived with red lips, short shorts, and no braided pigtails

at the age of fourteen,
she watched her father hit her mother for the first time
her mother cried when she saw her standing in the doorway
and told her daddy didn't mean it
          the next year, she told herself that her boyfriend didn't mean it, either

at the age of sixteen,
she was paper thin and empty
with straight blond hair, red lips,
purple flesh, and lifeless green eyes
          while staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror,
          she thought to herself "at least i'm normal."

“I like to pretend that sometimes” I said. He looked at me, in a way as though asking why or how without the desire to physically say the words.
“What I mean is that sometimes I like to pretend you were my first, instead of your older boy summer romance cliche. I don't know why though. Maybe I want to keep a bit of you with me when you leave. I think that when I’m old, or even just in college I’ll tell people how I lost my virginity to my bestfriend and how special it was. Maybe after I tell enough people I’ll even start to believe it too. Not that Michael isn't sumptuous or anything. Maybe its because when I tell people that story I’ll leave them with piece of you, and you’re great.”
He snapped the last of the bowl and kinda just sat there with a weird expression. It wasn't confusion or even melancholy. He seemed upset over something. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” he said.
“It won’t always be.”
I didn't feel sad, or happy, or angry with the silence. It was cold that night and we both kind of just sat there looking at the bright Los Angeles skyline we were so used to. He packed another bowl but I was done smoking for the night. Perhaps he didn't realize I’d been dying to tell that to him for a while. Killing myself thinking about him. Maybe I loved him, then, truth be told, I didn't know. I felt empty. Like I’d just thrown up everything I’d eaten that day. My head was as blank as the smoke coming from his mouth. He slowly put his arm around me and kissed me that way you see in movies. The way your friends sometimes talk about but you don’t really understand until it happens. He then put the **** down and fell on my lap. I quietly ran my fingers through his hair. Then he said, “Did I ever tell you about this fantastic girl whose virginity I took in the schools parking lot?”