The January Rain

My bangs hang in my face,
sticking to my skin in sweat
and poking at my eyelids.
There's a burning in my throat
like when you swallow chlorine
and accidentally breathe it in,
but it's a dry feeling
like when you're so scared
that you forget to swallow.
My eyes feel impossible to pry
as though they've been masked,
but I peek through my lashes
to see the room around me.
My tank light is on
and my closet door is open.
There's someone standing there.
They know I'm awake.
They can feel my fear.
It's everywhere and they can feel it.
It’s a cold January night
and it’s storming outside.
I can’t remember the last time
it rained in January.
I pull my covers closer,
feel my toes poke out from the blankets
and recoil them back to safety.
The rain pounds harder.
It sounds like rocks against my roof.
And then I look out the window
and see the blackness outside
and there’s the feeling
of standing in the rain
and letting it soak through you,
wet clothes clinging to your sides,
hair against your ears and forehead,
much like how mine is now.
I hear the choir of pitter-pat,
pitter-pat-pat.
My dreary eyes close
and I feel your hand
slip through my fingers.
Your soft skin is gentle and warm
and I turn to look at you.
Opening my eyes,
there you are behind my lashes,
your brown hair around your brow,
hair too short to reach your shoulders.
Your brown eyes are like marbles
above your full cheeks.
I can see the pink in your lips
and the dark lashes on your eyelids,
the way they flutter
when you’re nervous.
I squeeze my eyes shut to ward off sleep
and open them again to see
that you’re no longer there,
but your skin is between my fingers,
your hair is on my brow,
your marble eyes are in my head,
your full cheeks are against mine,
your pink lips are whispering words,
sweet and merry on my tongue,
and your lashes flutter in my heart,
butterflies on big sunflowers,
dripping in the January rain.