Last Night It Rained

Last night it rained and it reminded me of New York. Of old beer and whisky, of cigarettes and subway stops.

Last night it rained and I felt cold. I always forget how much I love the rain. It comes at you hard, no cares, and goes the same.

Sometimes the blinds in my room move, the air from the fan rustles them. I wake up and think it’s the rain, but it’s just another sunny day.

The rain reminds me of the past. Of being little, and later, walking under an umbrella on my way to work. Up and down the stairs, inside out.

There was a moment, as I lie in bed, that I thought I should take a walk. I wanted to slip on my hoodie, open the door, and walk down the hill, into the quiet of the night. I wanted the rain to soak me, to wash away where my heart had gone.

When it comes to the past, I only open the door a little. There’s too much there to let in. Like the sun. Like the rain.

The rain sounded good. To walk in it. To be free. There’s something good in knowing that you can do that. Wash somethings away. To remember what it was like. Before another thing burdened you. Before it lived outside, beyond the door.

I didn’t want to get wet. Heavy clothes with a heavy heart, up and down the hill. Couldn’t light a cigarette. Blowing smoke. No, I’ve done that before.

Last night it rained, and I stayed in bed. I listened in the dark. The trees outside rustling in the wind. I kept the door closed, because I wanted it that way. Doors are made to stayed closed. Safe, quiet. Keeping everything outside. Like always.