We woke, and he told me that love tastes like raining. Looking at each other, our bodies bare, the memory of our flesh an umbrella over us, his eyes roving over mine, thoughtful. But remember, I whispered, that all depends on how one might see the rain. His stoic thinking paused and he smiled that smile and with the edge of his palm traced the shape of my face. I watched the dimpling that held his cheeks in silence like two guards returning, the crevices that shape his peace, emerge once again. I think that after gimiwan, that the sun’s visit is so much like his smile. I want to tell him that his smile is the sun, but remember that we are talking about the rain, and I make myself quiet once again. I stuff the words back into my spirit, feeling like not wanting to forget my thoughts, but needing to take shape within that place that brings quiescence and thoughtfulness of sounds.
“Well?” I say instead, “How do you see the rain?”
