So I'm walking home from the shops, and the ghost of an idea crosses my mind. Which is kind of a Bad Thing(tm) - because under my other hat, I'm supposed to be trying to get ****** ****** finished.
Sigh.
But itchy fingers are itchy fingers, and there's really no cream for them save thumped keys. So I thumped. I'd apologise - but I probably wouldn't mean it (blush) :-).
Sometimes, when I'm not here and when I'm not under my Other Writing hat, I commit the Sin of Poesy. I don't generally admit to it, or show my sins in public, but there's a piece I have called TAIBSHE. And I was going to call this piece the same, but I figured it would be too big a clue to any who had the Gaeilge about them, and too meaningless for any who didn't. So I didn't. But I could have :-). And if any think this piece has echoes of THE DAY WE DIDN'T, you might be right. Or it might not have anything to do with that tale. To be honest, I don't know myself (blushes again). I could wonder the same about whether this links to FALLING TO LOVE. In technical 'writer language' - buggered if I know :-). If you want it to, let it be so, and if you don't, then it doesn't :-)).
But for what it's worth, here's WHEN THE RAIN COMES. I have no idea if it's erotic, and if it isn't, or folk think it isn't, I'll feel no ill if people think it should be taken down :-). Over to y'all...
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WHEN THE RAIN COMES
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I always know when the rain’s coming.
I remember how I laughed when you said we should build our house here. Not about here. Here is beautiful. But the why? Oh, the why. I can’t help smiling when I hear you again, though of course I can’t. Not really. Hear you, I mean. But in a way I can. And I hear you say how here is a special place, a spirit place. And I laugh again. Or maybe I just hear me laugh. It’s complicated.
Lots of things are. Complicated.
But the first time you brought me here, the why didn’t matter. It was right, us being here. I could feel it. And we built the house, and then you said we should make sure we could stay here forever – and I didn’t know what you meant. Not then. But you showed me, on our anniversary. And it should have been crazy, and it should have been so – so black. But it wasn’t. You brought me here, and it was our anniversary, and you showed me my present – our present. And the stones stood on the hill, and the sun slid from the sky – and it was the craziest, the best present I’d ever had. To know that when – well, when. To know that when, we would be together still, and be here still, and the sun and the sky and your dumb spirits could still be with us.
The first spots stain the stones darker. And I’m not surprised, because I know. I always know when the rain’s coming.
And the stones sit here, and it’s like they’ve always been here, eternal, unchanging. But things do change. Because now one’s filled, the space beneath at least. And I’d cry, but you always said we shouldn’t. Because that’s how things have to be, you said, one day at least. And you said how even when it happened, we’d still be here. Together. And I know you were right. I knew then, and I know now. Maybe more now than I ever did. But sometimes, like this time, I know the rain’s coming, because you loved the rain so much. And I know you’re sleeping. Just sleeping. So when the rain’s coming, I get up, and I get dressed, and I come here. Because you said it was a spirit place, and you never minded when I laughed.
The stones are darker now. Their stained granite mirrors the darkening sky above me as the sky’s tears fall. And I want to tell the sky not to cry, because you’re only sleeping. But it’s the rain, and you so loved the rain.
Sometimes, something is right. Just right. And sometimes it’s only right once, one moment, and never right again. But sometimes – just sometimes – it can be right twice over, three times. Or every time. And we hadn’t planned it, when we came here that day. We were just going to sit, to watch the sky, and the sun slide down it as the stars woke up to say hello. But the rain caught us, and it fell. It could have been awful, but it wasn’t. Because you so loved the rain. And you laughed, and I laughed, and only the sky cried. And you grabbed hold of me, and we danced. Because, you said, the storm had a song. The spitter, spatter voices, close harmony to the wind. The shatter-hammer tympani thunder, and the silence as the sky bolts shattered so bright. And we danced, and we spun, and you held me. It had been so warm, and I was wearing the grey silk blouse. Grey, you said, like mist, and like a mist hiding mystery. And you’d grin, for the pun and the words dancing on your tongue.
I loved your tongue.
And it wasn’t long, as we danced, before your fingers found my buttons. And it wasn’t long before your hands parted the mist, and opened it to find the mystery beneath. And you slid my blouse from me, and my skirt, and I pulled your shirt off, and your jeans, and we danced – and your hands ran over my skin like fire, wet fire, as the sky cried. And soon I felt my own wet fire, and I tripped you, and you laughed as we fell. You laughed, and told me how you would always fall for me, any time or any place. And your cock was hard, and your cock was ready, and so was I, and the rain fell over us as we danced closer, a more tender dance. And you were hard inside me, so very hard and deep, and my cunt was pulsing, crashing to the thunder-sky as you thrust, and the sky burst – and we came. Together.
I’m wet now. So very wet.
So even now, when I know, when I can feel the sky’s tears ready to weep, still I come here. And I dress, and I wear the same grey blouse you loved so, the one I wore that day. And I wear the same skirt you pushed down so gently, the same silk stockings you loved on me. And the wet rain tears caress the silk of my blouse just like your fingers, and I feel again those wet fingers run all over me, as the sky opens.
And I dance.
If your arms are not around me, that doesn’t stop me feeling them, the hammered rain wet surrogate for touch. And if your feet do not mark time with mine, then mine step twice as fast, to stand for both of us. And the rain falls, and the thunder hammers and the sky burns – and I’m wet, so very, very wet. And if your sleeping hands cannot do what they did before, mine can, and my blouse is off and my skirt is off, and my nipples are so very hard, like they were that day. And I feel your rain lips kissing them, feel your rain fingers down between my thighs, sliding into the wet fire in my cunt. And I know you were right. That this really is a spirit place, even if I laughed when you told me. And I dance, and my feet glide over the wet grass, and I take me naked to our house, and I take me naked to our bed. Because it’s the rain, and I know how you so loved the rain. And our room is as I left it, though now you sleep, and I raise my arms, and I call softly, and the rain comes to my call, and the wind comes to my whisper, because you sleep, and I know you loved it so. And the rain falls on you, and the wind whispers to you, and I see you smile. And I smile, and I whisper your name – and I come. Because I always come when the rain comes. I come to you and I come for you. And I see the coverlet over you jerk and jitter, there above your knees where your legs are bent under it, and I know I do not come alone. And again the rain falls on us, and again I am with you. Because I’m always with you.
And if the sky cries, I don’t cry, Because, like you said, this is how it has to be, when it has to be. And I can wait. Wait until we sleep together once more. And just like I always feel the rain when it’s going to fall, I can feel it softly passing. And I lower my arms, and the rain passes from our bed, and I lower my arms, and the wind drifts silent, and I lower my arms, and once again I whisper your name – and tell you I love you.
The rain is gone. The sun is sliding from the sky. So I slide with it, and slip beneath my stone again. To sleep, perchance to dream – because that’s how it has to be, when it has to be. But that’s OK. Because as I sleep, I can feel it.
The rain is coming.