Crouching Thunder, Hidden Rain

I can smell the rain, and it is hiding in the pocket of a five year old boy, jostled around by two clear, green marbles and a yellow button. And sewed into the hem of a maiden's blouse, rocking in between her bosom and following the swing of her hip, as she whistled a folksong she heard when the circus was in town. It is marching in between the lines of soldiers, in dry trenches and under withered camouflage. It flies swiftly under the wing of the albatross and dances on the edge of the sea-shore.
Did you find the rain? And while you sat in the corner of the room you shared with another, chipping away the wax that had two nights ago melted onto your table in a molten puddle, you saw rain crawl out of an old grey sock. You were quick but clumsy, and knocked over the ink pot letting the blue-black liquid run across the dark wood and drip in infuriating drops to the floor. The colour bled, wrapped itself around the rain, and the blue black mist was exhaled out of the gaps in the weave. There was panic, you had to be quick. 
You couldn't hear the movement, but you felt it travel from the small of your back to the little drops of sweat that dotted your upper lip right up till the root of your hair. You squeezed your eyes shut in the hope that you could trap the chill but then it crawled out of your pores - damp and full of destruction.
I can hear the thunder and it is far away, closer to you, and before the sky can swallow it, it burrows it's way through thick clouds and created labyrinthine patterns allowing some sunshine to stream through.
Did you hear the thunder while you chased the rain? It slipped under your bed, it is quiet and quick, but you are quicker. You caught it in a glass jar and stuck a label with his name on it. You have called him Claude. You have beautiful penmanship, and in cursive hand your L's loop in smooth, long, straight lines.
I looked for it everywhere, you know, in between pages of books and behind the curtains, in letter boxes and shoe boxes and match boxes. Did you know, it rode on the backs of whales and kissed the noses of puppy dogs and danced to the tune of traffic lights - red, amber, green, amber, and scurried along.
The thunder has disappeared and the rain long gone, but there is promise. They will come back, definitely not tomorrow. I am sure. May be next week. I am certain. But come they will, like a victorious army - storm in with pride and noise and applause.

The Way Back Home

One day, when the sun is hiding behind an ashen cloud I will find you and take you with me to the old warehouse. I have been there several times, but how did I get there? 

We have to walk down a muddy road that has no name and cannot be found on the map and it is definitely not close to anything I know, and does not belong to anybody I know. If you are not looking for the warehouse - an old building with yellowing paint that is peeling off in artistic patterns - you will miss it. There are obviously no clues or signboards but there is the hope of finding a traveller who will not have directions, but he will have stories to tell from across the seas and beyond the forest. 

It is beautiful, this warehouse, you may not think so when you see the broken door-knob and window shutters that are hanging off rusting hinges. But that is also because you see only the holes that the termites have left behind and when you touch the wall, the red brick that hides behind the paint, crumbles.

We will go by walk. It is a long walk. But we will carry notebooks and crayons, a dictionary, pens and 2-minute noodles that come with plastic forks. You can teach me rhythm and I will read to you till the evening light fades.

There are days when in the middle of the night, if you lie down in the wild grass and hold your breath, in the stillness you can hear the earth breathing and it is glorious. 

I like to imagine that this is my little secret, but I know it is not. On an old tree stump that was felled a long time ago I have carved my name, claiming ownership. And when you run your fingers along the wall you can trace all the names that have been carved in with shards of glass, sharp stones and pen knives. When I read their names, I see their faces and can tell if they were travellers, or lost or simply searching for something they lost.
Sometimes I dream that I live there with a man. Someone who will play an instrument and sing the blues. He will cook and I will clean and I will write. Poetry and lyrics and novellas and things to do, I will write them all down. We will forget the date and day and count down the days with notches we draw on the wall.
And one day when the sun is hiding behind an ashen cloud, I will find you and take you with me to the old warehouse. I have been there several times and in my dreams I have built a life there with a man who plays an instrument and sings the blues. 

Someone We Used To Know

I lay across the bed from him, his face in mine, separated by a wall of grey smoke. The herb is the healing of the nation, the healing of my lacerated heart. I sank into the navy depth, weighed down by a thousand anchors as I watched him sublimate. The curve of his back arched and he seemed to rise. His face disintegrated part by part and his eyes began to sink into their sockets and disappear into warm wisps of air that was snug and safe in the cold night. He looked celestial in that moment, disappearing from my tangible world and fading into the recesses of my dreams where he belongs. Not death, just a disappearance.
Just like he came, he will go, back to his world of making manic faces in the mirror and finger painting in pastel shades of water colours. It will all be very quiet, the departure that is. May be a tear or two which will be shed in secret, not for the hope of what could have been, and not for the hundred prayers that went unanswered, but for all the beauty that was us.
Good night friend.