The Drenched Month by AH Writes Stories
The rain refused to cease. The clouds posed a formidable sight every single minute of every single hour of every single day of that drenched month. Heavy in their stature. Wombs beholding torrents which could sweep through entire nations. Ignited, every once in a while, by thunderous lightning, letting loose a glimpse, just a momentary display, of the darkness which dominated the sky.
What did it all mean, you might say.
People entrapped within homes, unruly.
The deathly silence slithering through abandoned streets.
Muddy puddles awaiting the stomping of children, reckless and wild.
The girl with rosy cheeks awaiting a lover’s enticing kiss on her balcony (now a temporary shelter for pigeons bored to death- their wings aching with inaction).
What did it all mean, you might say.
The wilting flowers.
The crumbling walls in the backyard.
The stray dog, once the scourge of the insomniacs now whimpering, behind a clump of soaking grass.
It meant everything and nothing all at once.
It meant the quietude of a room unlit, unkempt, motionless – with an illuminated globe swirling, floating – right at the centre.
It meant an empty canvas brushed across with colorless, odorless water – depicting with bare perfection – the indefatigable vastness of the sea.
It meant succumbing to the eyes of a woman and perishing at the mere existence of her thereafter.
The rain droned on and on,
but only did a hand appear
over the windowsill.
Slender fingers outstretched,
to feel the daunting cold.
Pale skin turned white,
shivering uncontrollably.
This rain. Oh, this rain.
It was meant to last forever.
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