The Weight of Rain

When I close my eyes, my mind paints a picture of his smile and shades the contours of his hands, the deep scar around his bicep.

I'm an artist, yet my hands are unsteady. With his presence, he has unknowingly broken that something inside of me that makes me who I am.

Being around him is like standing in a rainstorm. First the drops tickle my skin, and then they coat me, refusing to be ignored. Finally, they soak into me, reaching parts of me I don't think anyone has ever touched.

When dreams turn into reality, will the picture in my mind transfer to paper?