Bubble Rain

It started to rain again.

The last time it was raining on this part of the island was half a year ago—when the rain could witness us with our lips locked, while my fingers fumbled due to their lack of experience and your hands gripping on the armrests between us trying to simultaneously be closer and apart. The rain manifested a little bubble that defied time and space, any resemblance of reality was rejected. It was, simply, intimacy made life. My trusted yellow bag was a silent witness of the bubble in which there was a you and a me that cannot exist in reality. You were attentive, flirty, caring, observant, and a bit spontaneous, while I was hopeful, giddy, naive, and unready. We were exquisite. We experienced things that logic and reality would reject all at once. But that is all it was. A bubble. Its exclusivity cannot obey the laws of time and space, so it left us bereft of guidance or path. Things are done differently in this realm. We cannot find a dynamic that suits us properly and gives the same delightful feeling that we experienced in the bubble.

Maybe the rain would end the feelings that it started.