Feels Like Rain

Feels Like Rain

It was later on that she determined
The man she needed was Blues.

She had been through them all—

Jazz was too sparse and erratic,
Left her feeling unfulfilled.

Classical was overwhelming,
Sometimes arrogant, and smelled of
Fireplaces and worn books.

Country wrote sweet love songs
For dim dance floors, but even sweeter songs
For goodbye.

Punk made her feel young
And ready to conquer,
But she forgot how to be silent.

Her last man,
He was Folk.
Like a quiet Sunday morning with the
Staccato of snow spiraling silently
On the other side of the window.
He said beautiful things
In a beautiful voice,
Perfect satisfaction in the crescendo,
Sometimes even goosebumps when he whispered
Soft words of love down her shoulder.

But he did not make her feel the way she did
When she brushed arms with the Blues.
He started slow, soft, almost like a cry out.

Baby, I been missin' you so long now.

The notes dripped from his fingers,
Flowed in smooth rivulets
Down the neck of his guitar,
And puddled at his feet.
His voice wrapped firmly around
Her small waist,
Tangled itself in her hair.
Her breath pressed against her chest,
Waiting to explode
As his voice became more frantic
And the notes came so fast that they became one.
Now it was a howl,
Low and deep in his throat.

Baby, oh baby, I been missin' you.

Slow, he whispered. Slow.
She sucked in her breath.
Blissful suffocation.

All the man she needed.