I left the windows open last night because I wanted to listen to the rainstorm. It carried on all the way into the early morning with soft rumbles and flashes of light across the sky. It kept calm and was respectful enough to let me sleep last night. Subtle sounds of raindrops creating melodies against the window sills. Water slowly accumulating in wait for the chance to gently spill over the sides. It was almost as if the storm knew there was a need for the presence of it. A need for something new. Something to remember. Just something. Rainstorms typically bring out a softer side to my femininity. Normally aggressiveness needs to meet me against walls or floors or counter tops. Normally. But rainstorms remind me of a caressing nature, the way the down pour hits the the softened grass. How there’s a warmer breeze paired with a wet atmosphere. It’s passion that rainstorms exude. How nurturing they are to the earth. To the cries of dry land. They listen and they tend. Raindrops falling steadily causing steam to rise from the long and hot days. I awoke to the same rainfall from last night, smiling. It was nice the way it rocked me to sleep. Gentle in the way it demanded my attention. So soft in the way it made me remember when you used to be my rainstorm. How attentive in the paths created to keep a body nurtured and tended for. Your hands created rain storms between thighs and fingertips playfully counting the drops of perspiration along my spine. This was your land. You were the rainstorm that saved many droughts. I’m reminded of you this morning with the lightness of rain fall.