Rainy Sunday

It's Sunday afternoon and the rain is drizzling down.
People call, they want to talk, but I want to be left alone.
When I need someone, it seems they're not there,
But when I want no one, they won't go away.
Why can't people figure it out?
They want you to listen, to help, to have the answer,
But what happens when you have the question,
And no answers are offered?
What happens when you're tired of being there for people
When it seems that no one is there for you?
People claim to understand, because ofcourse they've been there before.
But they haven't.
If they had, they would care more.
Pretending to know makes it worse,
It's cruel.
Don't call to "talk" when all I'm gonna be able to do is listen.
Just let it rain, and leave me alone.

We always have our best times at the beach, starting with the first time we traded I-Love-Yous*, all the way up to yesterday, when we walked along the cold beach, and I used my toes to flip over bits of oyster shells while you skipped rocks and shells back into the waves.

I will probably always remember you the way you were yesterday, smiling and rosy-cheeked from the cold.
Stomping our feet like turning grapes to wine and letting the sand suck our feet in up to the ankles.
I waited for the rain to fall on us, and thought about how delicious it would be to stand in the cold, on the beach, with warm mouths being our only point of contact and raindrops stuck to our eyelashes.

But the rain never came, so I coaxed kisses out of you anyway, brushed sand off your jacket, and thought about when I'd have the time to dance slowly, and just for you, in my bedroom, backlit against wet, silver light.

Maybe next time.

 

 

 

^{*he also proposed on the beach, at our beach, in Corona Del Mar, Ca.}