the gentle pattering that we went to sleep with swelled gradually, sometime during the night hours, a hard rain began to slash against the panes.

Perhaps it was the forceful turmoil of that ceaseless lashing wetness, drumming the roof, the walls, the window of my small bedroom that shoved my consciousness roughly out of it's warm, urgent dream of comingled flesh, fingers hot against my mouth, eager, familiar trespass of boundaries so lately drawn firm around me. Unasked for, unwanted now, but coming again and again as if in mockery of all the endeavors of my independance.

And, perhaps in the end it all comes to nothing.

Nothing.

But a nothing like that could span miles, huge and ugly, a monsterous nothing, a flaming bridge, a welter of popping sparks and ashes...

So I put it from my mind, 'cause there's more to life than falling from love. Even if you're a serial love addict, a junkie perhaps... There's always a new leaf to turn, a new story to write, a new cock to-

No. Not quite.

Soon perhaps? says my body, stirring rivulets of interest, surprised and excited by the rains vehemence. My mind lazily contemplates the idea... Spinning it round like a slightly-only slightly-unripe pear at the grocery store. Looking at one side, then the other, judging color and heft, hand to hand, tenderly fingering, testing for firmness or yielding.

Soon.

It's cold outside tonight. The streetlights glisten in my downpours tiny rivulets, streaming, shivering, lingering in puddles and splashing down drains...

It's all the same to water.