The Woman Who Loves The Rain


Dear You,

It is raining.

Pluviophile — Such a dreary word with such a beautiful meaning.

A lover of rain.

Someone who revels in the peace accompanying ashen, rain-laden clouds buoyed by tempestuous winds.

Someone who finds as much comfort in the thunderclaps and lightning as they do in the petrichor and cold drops.

Someone who finds love in the middle of a storm.

I am that someone.

I am tempted to ask, “Did you know this about me before we found our homes in each other?”

Did you know already that hours after the rain has gone and only the cold breath of Earth is left playing on my face, my smile will live on in my eyes as I fold into my dreams at night?

That I will live with the memories of beauty and joy, no matter how fleeting, no matter how small.

That you and I, even for a bright summer day, will mean a lifetime of sunshine laughs to me.

That my eyelids hold back my gaze after an afternoon of thunderstorms. They quell the craving that wants my eyes to look skyward again and again in anticipation.

That long after your fingers would have become strangers to mine, I will only trace your name on the inside of my palm which will close in a fist. That this longing will remain hidden behind my palms, and I will not look skyward.

That I can chase ephemeral rainbows, across puddled roads, because I know that a moment of awe bends space-time rules and lasts much longer than we think.

And that the first time you said my name, it pulsed its way into my hippocampus and now resides there with a collage that is my happy place.

And that if one day, all my memories were to fade away, all I would want to remember is the sound of the rain as I wrote you this letter.


Someone who loves you almost as much the rain