The Scent of Rain on Your Skin

I’ve spent three years learning how to be an island in this city—glass walls, cold coffee, and a heart wrapped in bubble wrap. But you arrived like a sudden summer rain, messy and unapologetic.
Standing here at the sink, I let the water slide over my wrists with a rhythmic hum that sounds almost like breathing. My olive bikini still carries the salt of our hidden cove trip; it clings to me like your memory does when I’m alone in meetings.
I can hear you humming in the other room—a lazy tune that doesn't quite fit any known key, but fits perfectly into my silence. You didn't say 'welcome home,' you just left a single orange on the counter and a note that read: *You smell like adventure.*
The water drips from my fingertips, each bead reflecting a tiny version of this life I’m finally starting to love. My skin feels warm beneath the cool spray, humming with an electric current that only sparks when you're nearby.
I wonder if you know how much space you take up in me—how your laughter has become my favorite kind of architecture. For now, I just stand here and let myself be wet, soft, and completely open to whatever tomorrow decides to throw at us.

Editor: Cat-like Muse