All the Way In

He teases me because I crave the rainy days much more than I crave the sunny ones. I smile because he is a fool but I allow him that because his love is as big as the universe, he just doesn’t know how to harness it.

There are people who dive right in and say the thing, wear their heart on their sleeve, hold nothing back. Then there are the ones who take their grand time thinking, considering, what to share and what to keep secret. I oscillate somewhere inbetween, I guess.

I tell him some things and not others just like I do with everyone. Somewhere along the way the idea that secrets are a terribly somehow immoral thing to possess took hold but I don’t buy it. We all have secrets whether or not we let on about it. There’s an irony there, wouldn’t you say? Perhaps the ones who say they haven’t any secrets are keeping the biggest one of all from you and from themselves.

Walking along down the street, my sandals feel hot against my feet because the asphalt, the concrete, the skin, the air and everything else near or around it is on fire with the scorching, unrelenting heat of late summer in August. Who wouldn’t give just about anything for cloud cover, steady rain, and the early blanket of twilight right now?

Questions drown me more often than not, so I guess if I can’t have my lusted for rain shower at least I have a mind teeming with the constant drench of unanswered riddles. If you and I are together sipping coffee, I will tell you as much as I ask you. If you provoke my interest, I will try to weave my fingers through that mind of yours and ferret out the most fascinating bits. Some people quite enjoy it. They’ll humor me and then before long they are more than eager to play along. Still others are visibly uncomfortable, if not borderline terrified.

The thing is, so few people seem to think much at all let alone contain the depths of the layers I am eager to uncover. Some random author or other wrote on Twitter the other day ‘bring back thoughtfulness’ and I couldn’t agree more with the sentiment, even if the platform it was thrown out onto and discarded from in half a second flat might have pummeled its potency into the ground like crushing the petals of a delicate flower beneath the tar-stained wheel of your bicycle.

Still, though. Normalizing thoughtfulness sounds about as romantic as it gets these days.

As I continue on toward the swanky bar to meet a friend for Friday martinis and gossip, I pass a thick collection of rose bushes which line the side of a crooked, chipped white fence. The gorgeous blossoms are the richest, most velvety dark crimson I have ever seen. I reach out and stroke the petals of one of the blooms which is so robust, its beautiful, elegant head hangs low with the heavy fragrance of silent, melancholic resignation. She seems as though she has perhaps somehow, sadly, achingly, overwhelmed herself, simply by becoming all that she could.

Roses are a dime a dozen, of course, and almost so overly hyped on plastic holidays it makes your stomach turn. But there are some roses which absolutely contain a personality all their own. Some that are posing without posing, gazing up and out, or downward and off into the misty distance, wistfully, crying out longingly, for the gentle press of the rain. Delicate. Sultry. Ripe. And positively dripping with the sweet nectar of secrets.

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