drip. drop. drip. drop.
there was the pitter patter, corralling the water to sheets that rolled against the windows -- behind the bed, behind our resting heads, behind our brains, in that dim-lit offstage space where our dreams are written. off goes the white noise app, so insufficient measured against the real stuff. when suddenly, she pulls back, hearkening back from whence she came. back to air, to the clouds, drawing away to drop someplace else.
and then, just as fast, she's back. the sheets are drawn back up, back to that soft spot on the bottom of our noses. we pray she will stay -- please -- until we've fallen asleep. missing her is worse than never meeting her.
because there are a million things in this world worth pausing, and waiting, and praying for. but there is nothing like the rain in the middle of the night.