Photo: Getty Images
by Karen Crawford
Maybe you were flying, flying when we met. I was looking up at an ocean of sky and there you were–diving heart first, this tangle of storm jonesing for rain, and maybe for a moment I thought I could catch you, maybe I thought I could bottle the rain.
Maybe you were floating, floating when I fell. The raft of my heart deflating beneath the thunder of your cloud, and there you were–clapping for rain, knocking back rain, toasting to rain, and maybe for a moment I wished I was rain, but I knew; you would always hug the bottle.
Maybe you were falling, falling when I left, and there I was–drenched in rain, cursing rain, cleansed of rain, and maybe for a moment, I missed the rain. Sometimes when the sky cracks open, I imagine the free fall and no one there to catch you.
Karen Crawford lives and writes in the City of Angels, exorcising demons one word at a time. X @KarenCrawford_
