You started out as a sprinkle, a hint of rain. You brought a shy smile to my face, a warm flush through my body. I was in disbelief when I first heard about you asking about me. The first day we really talked, it was like I couldn't get enough of you or our conversation. I was manic at the end of that day - the good kind. My heart raced, I felt excited, and again that feeling of disbelief. I was also scared that I would never hear from you again. But then I did. For something like two months, nearly every day, we never ran out of things to say. My life was full of your rain and I was dancing in it with a huge grin on my face, arms thrown wide and head tilted back.
Then the rain stopped, and I was okay with it. Rainstorms aren't meant to last forever. I didn't feel too much loss, even though I missed the rain every once in a while. The end of a rainstorm doesn't mean a drought. And then, after a few months, the rain started again. You came back to me. When I asked why, you said that you had thought of me every day since we had last spoke - didn't I think of you? I lied to you. I told you that I had forgotten you. I hadn't. I had put you in a room in the back of my mind and closed the door. You weren't gone from my mind, you were just hidden. And just like that, with a simple "hi" you came bursting out of that hidden room and set up camp in the forefront of my mind. You stayed there. You're still there. The rain stayed. It started pouring, like it was racing itself down. One night, a simple "can I call you to say goodnight?" turned into a several hours long phone call and a crack of thunder and lightning at 3 a.m. I was breathless at the thunder and scared of the lightning at first. I didn't believe it. I told you as much. And then I told you the same as we said goodnight, when it was really morning.
The rain continued for a week more and then abruptly, like a faucet, it stopped. No drips of water running out. Nothing. A week after the end, it hurt the most. The absence of rain felt like a searing desert heat. I didn't know what to do. But you can't ask a rainstorm to return. It has its own path. It was gone. But this time, I was mad. It had been pouring and then nothing. I was frustrated.
Seven weeks of no rain and then with a whisper, you returned. A sprinkle again. I was still angry and I told you as much. You said you understood why I was angry and that you had no good explanations. We talked for several hours again, falling back into ourselves by the end. You responded with thunder again, but softer this time. I didn't return it. You said you understood why. The rain was sporadic for a few weeks. And then nothing again. You did warn me this time, but now I feel the loss of rain so acutely that it hurts. I miss you. I miss your rain.
I don't know how to ask for it back.
I don't know if I'm allowed.
