Rain patters on the skin,
Saint of many good deeds

Wind makes it soft,
So it fly
Leaving its shell of emotions on the petrichor

Oh my my,
It's love at first sight
The rain is just an excuse,
likewise

-lona

The best mornings are made up of
waking up to new horizons abroad,
caducity not in my thought,
smell of the fresh day
— as pure as petrichor;
the day born as richer,
‘tis a new tune in embouchure
between past and future.

There's something about falling in love with shooting stars and REM dreams and library books and strangers in the train, whose eyes meet yours for a split second. There's something about falling in love with petrichors that last for half an hour, with the songs you hear without knowing the title, with paper boats under the rain and CDs with scratches, with that person you spent a 5 am with in a desolate park, talking about life and sadness and life — what even is the difference, without ever knowing their name.

There's a nameless feeling, probably something between resigned and bittersweet, about falling in love with temporary things. Maybe it's knowing that I've lost some things forever. It's knowing that I should always learn to let go — knowing that they won't ever come back.

And so won't you. Darling, at least, losing them didn't hurt.