Rainstorm

   The soft breeze, charged with the smooth chill of the coming storm, reached my face. It blows back a few tendrils of hair, lifting them off my shoulders in a graceful dance. The sky is steel and dim, sheathed in a soft veil of clouds. The light that filters through the storm is soft as the scarf at my throat.
I shiver in the gentle of the October air, feeling the miserability of the coming autumn. I hear only the sound of leaves crashing together in the breeze and the echo of my own heart beat. Each breath I drag into my lungs tastes of rain that has yet to fall.
   I fall back onto the grass, gazing up at the silvery sky, just waiting for it to begin. I wait for the downpour to pound upon me, to wash away all the regrets I have formed. I lay in wait for the sky to open up and send down it’s acknowledgement of the ache within me. But, as the clock glides along it’s circular path, relief does not come.
   The sky stares down at me sorrowfully, like it wants nothing more than to oblige me. But it doesn’t. Not a single droplet falls.
   Weakly, I raise myself once more. I sit up, and the breeze once again brushes it’s freezing fingers across my face. I feel my nose go numb and the curls that had cascaded over my shoulders brush back in a slow waltz. Then I feel it.
   The single drop on my cheek. I note, however, that the clouds were not the one who released it, but my eye. I sit there, the first tear running down my face, and feel the rainstorm begin.

--Lilah Belle