Last night it rained.
I was sitting on the porch watching masochistic mosquitoes throw themselves at the back light, wondering if maybe they have it right, if maybe death is better than getting burned and living to tell the tale. The air is heavy, reminiscent of the silence when you asked me to leave. The staccato symphony of rain on the tin roof began, crescendoed, then died. The air smelled of asphalt and heartbreak. The parched ground drank up the rain like an alcoholic a day away from rehab, as if it knew a drought was coming. I laid down in the damp grass and let the earth surround me until the dawn came and kissed me gently on the cheek.