It was an early Spring afternoon when the rain was trickling down my cheek.
And then I realized, I was unaware of the last time I saw the rain.

I felt its warmth, its peace, its romantic disposition.
As if I had missed so much time, and I was unsure of where it all went.
But this was not like the rain I once knew.

I walked under the dark clouds, alone through an empty field,
with just one small ray of sunshine guiding me to the unfamiliar.
And when the field came to,
I did not feel any trepidation. I felt I had been brought to shelter.
The beauty that exposed itself to me, as if I would never be of harm,
it was so delicate. It trusted me to care for its vivacity.

And in that moment, I knew. There was a reason I could not distinguish the rain.
It cascaded itself over me as if it was my own sanctuary.
And it was. Because I had been here many times before.
Except before, the rain was not my safety, it was my dejection.
I had not felt this rain because in times they were tears,
now simply a shower of rejuvenation. Transpiring itself into a new dream.

The best part? I could not tell you.
Its abrupt ending woke me, and I was lying next to you.
And I swore I had dreamt of this moment, too.
The subconscious designs its own form of perfection, and you,
You are mine.