It’s the damn rain that makes me think of your kitchen window, the one that had cigarette smoke for air and that if you opened it you could hear more the sound of your laughter than that of this awakened city in ruins. 

I think of the window that had all the blue tones that ever existed, that it was summer but you had a sweater and I was thirsty for a warm drink.

I know that we weren’t more than nothing and less than everything, that the way you spoke sounded like a language that I hadn’t learned and everything that was going on was a movie that my eyes would dream of again. 

And I know that this is the rain that never fell that day, the one that reminds me of your lips absorbing nicotine while you challenged me with your smile to tell you the love that even you didn’t know, and it's that I know that we stood by that window with our hands brushing and our feet pointing at us. 

And we could have been magnificently terrible if we hadn’t waited for the pouring rain that would never come. 

And I know that this damned storm night leaves me wondering if maybe this was our rain.

TA.