It’s raining and I’m longing for someone who hasn’t thought about me in weeks. This is where I’m comfortable. In the tolerable melancholy, that sweet familiar ache. I don’t want everything because half the fun is in that wanting. Yearning is a fading art. Why flesh our dramatic scenes with them in your mind, first kisses and fights, and quiet scenes, morning coffee and movie night – when someone who will want you back, right now, right there, is just a few taps away? I’m all for convenience but there’s just something about the rain, washing away the grime and small indignities of everyday life, makes you more idealistic, maybe hopeful. Maybe the temporary and artificial darkening of the sky tells your heart it’s night – it’s always easier to feel these things in the dark. Maybe today is the day they text you, how are you, how have you been, may I be allowed to be in your life again. And you will smile because you knew this moment would come, have written pages and pages about in your diary. But somehow it is always sweeter here in the real world, hand in hair, hand on heart, breath on cheek, cheek curving over jaw, lips tucked there, all those nice and disappearing things.