La Pluie

It is too overcast to get a sunburn, yet my skin and lips are laced with the oily cream. I can feel it beading over my forehead. It’s warm and sticky out.

I am eager for the storm that is perched in the blooming blue clouds hanging over the trees. I can just make out the plumes of lavender bunching like cramped muscles through the dark, almost bloody green. It almost has a flavor, pressing its tinted shadows over my skin, pricking at my lips. An insect hisses by.

I imagine a raindrop shooting from the welkin and melting through my skin. I picture sheets of dancing grey droplets turned to streaks darkening the trunks of the trees. If I close my eyes, I can nearly hear it, nearly smell the petrichor; almost drown in it. My breathing hitches. The summer fills my lungs.

I need the rain.

“J’ai besoin de la pluie.”

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