he told me he loved the rain the same as i did what he meant, was that he loved to watch from behind the window and listen as it gently tapped against the glass. when i say i love the rain i mean that the roar of thunder awakens my bones, just as the smell of lightning fills my lungs. i hear it kissing the earth and all at once i can't stop myself from running outside and letting it consume me.
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.
In the city, it smelled good. the smell of smoke, smelled good. The smell of smog, smelled good, the Mexican food, smelled good, the smell of the heat, smelled good, and pinched my nose too.... But the petrichor smelled best. Because when it rained, it smelled like concrete. The concrete smelled good.