Tempest
Is it raining where you are?
Are the drops tiptoeing across the palm of your hand, finding solace in the crevices of your finger joints?
Are the beadlets tickling the tip of your nose, then snaking down the maze of freckles upon your cheek?
Is the dampness filling the cracks of your lips, then gently flooding your mouth to settle on the top of your tongue?
Is the downpour soaking your fiery hair, leaving red strands dancing upon the face of your forehead?
Are the raindrops running rampant upon your skin, wrapping you in warm touches making you smile and sigh and leaving you in rapture in a way that I never could?
In a way that you would never let me?
Is it raining where you are?
Because I am standing here alone, parched, waiting for any glimpse of moisture to quench this dryness upon my skin that is leaving me thirsty.
