summer rain

our love lasted exactly as long as that warm summer rain that began to fall at twilight. we ran, laughing, along the half-abandoned foot paths that meander aimlessly through the decommissioned navy base. we took shelter beneath an old pine tree whose needles beneath our feet made the entire earth smell new. we crouched there against its trunk, drinking whiskey from paper cups, wrapped in the sound of the rain all around.

i told you that i didn't understand how anyone fell in love anymore, that maybe love was an anachronism in the modern age. you laughed and asked if i really believed that. yes, i said, i do, though i knew i was lying before I'd even finished the words.

i kissed you then and you didn't point out the contradiction. i kissed you as drops of rain fell down through the branches, cold against our naked arms.

you asked me if i had a cigarette and i said no, i don't smoke. good, you said, i don't either.

i walked you home then, your hand in mine, and when we reached your front porch, we embraced. i watched you walk up the steps, unlock the door, and as i turned to go, i heard the turning of the latch.

the rain faltered, then stopped. and the world was silent, silent, silent.