Lonely Hearts Chapel

Behold the tender fancies of a celibate/possibly asexual rain-lover:

Lovemaking

Rain smells, to me, like the heavens having sex with the earth. Humanity and nature alike are drenched in the frictional sweat of an intense, atmospheric lovemaking. The sky’s juices squirt everywhere, indiscriminate and inescapable, at times roaring blindly into the balmy, electric darkness; rumbling, beckoning. Some days–as I first get up or last lie down in bed–I close my eyes, listening to a rainstorm through a barely open window, and I feel absolutely certain I’m smelling penetration, impregnation. I inhale it thankfully and greedily, like musk, and with a piercing, faroff, lazy grin I wonder which I’d rather be: the sky, or the ground.

I’m just a hunk of labradorite, sitting on a windowsill, asking the universe to keep bad vibes away.

Love always,

your Mister