The first time

The first time you explained the meaning of the word petrichor, you told me
you were a pluviophile, and that the two
were not synonymous. You said
that loving rain was not the same as
loving the sound of droplets shattering fragile
leaves, how loving a person in their entirety is not
the same as being in love with how they make you feel.

The first time I told you I loved you, it was raining
outside and you only looked out the window,
expressionless,
and told me,
“Rain is beautiful, and ephemeral,” and I don’t think you understood
how I could never look at the rain because
for me, you are eternity, you are the waves crashing
along the ocean shore, the mountains
reaching for that open space of blue, the
galaxies swirling forever and ever in darkness.

You’re always writing, always immersed in yellowed
pages and blank spaces and maybe you’d love yourself
more if you’d stop believing that
we’re all just ideas waiting to be discovered,
that we’re all just spinning out of
control in the cosmos,
utterly,
utterly,
alone.

You told me you feared oblivion, and I could not
comfort your tear-stained pillows, only
offer you a bouquet of roses and the wish that I were
God so I could make it rain
just once, just
once, to see your eyes flash the hue of
hazel laced with chocolate, like
the sweet warmth of the alcohol-laced chocolate melting in our mouths
that winter night so long ago.

For you, I would have given up the rain.
I would have given up redwoods and giant oaks and
pines, spruces, willows…
I guess that’s the difference between us:
I naively believed our love had roots,
able to grow deep and sure, so
we could one day reach the sky.

It just hurts, I guess, that
you didn’t believe in us enough
to stay.