“Darling, I brought you an umbrella!” he said with the raise of a brow and a wink. She laughed at his silliness.
“So dashing as always,” and with a pedicured finger she poked at the sky.
“But it’s quite sunny, dear boy.”
He popped open the umberella with a dramatic flair.
With his lips next to her ear, and breath like a fresh brewed cup of coffee, he said,
“You see, I know that you are a storm, and at any moment you may bring the rain upon me and it may pour,”
The boy put his palm in between the arch in her back and brought her in next to him underneath the umbrella.
“So I will be waiting patiently, because the rainbows after rain are always worth waiting for.”
Our song is the sound of rain on a sidewalk.
Our song is the rustling of the trees on a winter’s night.
Our song is the taste of coffee in the morning.
Our song is the feeling of falling, the height of which is unimaginable, the direction from which unknowable, the destination intangible.
Our song is the rust on guitar strings, the calluses on my fingertips, the words I write in silence.
Our song is the smell of an old book filled with the thoughts of a life gone by.
Our song is the touch of a hand, the sight of a smile, the joy of laughter.
Our song is a rushing heart, a deep breath, a happy sigh.
Our song is the ocean tide, the moon’s reflection, the starry night.
Our song is the crackling of a bon fire, the embers in the pyre, the smoke that escapes the flame.
Our song is freedom in a room bound by chains.
Maybe Heaven isn’t meant for the lovers…
Maybe Hell is where we’re meant to be;
The ashes on my fingertips still burn for all the times I’ve crossed the wrong bridges.