You have become the rain. Gentle, yet violent when you choose. And anytime you come around, I am more or less astounded by the representation in which you carry your being. It was as if water, had always remained your second skin.
 

Difficult to touch, and best to embrace at a distance. Finger tips to glass as you pour out your mind and soul across the entirety of the town. Whimsicality was what you were often known for. Though that was far from all you were.
 

You were lightning, the color of a sore, beaten down bruise that hadn't quite gone away yet. Thunder roaring through the trees as stray birds fought their strength away from these patterns of misfortune. Nothing short than a force to be reckoned with once provoked.
 

You were all of these things, compacted into one, soft skinned being. And each night, I pour myself into the idea of knowing that you will return in such ways as you did before.
 

Dulcet, pattering across the tin roof of my shaken down home. I don't trust myself to ever forget such occurrences. These moments in which my surroundings almost appear to cease as a whole. All I hear is you, all I smell is the dampness of your outburst.
 

When you trace out into the distance, there is no perturbation that you will be missing long. For I know that when morning comes, and the iced down light of the spring sun cascades itself into my eyes. I will hear you once more.