The rain seems to drive certain things out of people. I myself have an affinity for coffee shops and sitting indoors, watching the people outside, shielded from the whining midmorning sky by their individual canopies; inclined to share the translucent gleam of their world with anyone for whom there is the slightest recollection, so close. Would their bodies touch up against each other, and does that make them smile?
Everyone?
Even the elderly, who have experienced touch in every form? Does the body ever tire of warm living thing pressed up against warm living thing, with no answer to the question of repetition? Is the world a romantic?
The sky.
It seems like she is crying for the love inexperienced, for the one umbrella per person, negating the outward necessity for warm against warm. But, we are all filled with the same as rain on the inside, and our bodies will be cold at the end.
It's raining here, in this place that will always be the other side of the world, though that is impossible. I do not grow tired of seeing small umbrellas, two underneath, without enough room to stand apart.
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