He wrote and then in anger, grabbed the paper and tore it off.
Scrunched it up and balled it up.
Just like my heart.
A cigarette lay burning itself out, lit but unsmoked.
Whisky on the rocks,
Downed and then the empty bottle held over the glass.
Thrown away with a shatter somewhere in a corner of the studio.
Memories, all of them painful.
The sky echoes deep with a rumble.
And a bright white light sears across the sky.
Rain comes soon.
Drops heavy like bombs.
Hammering at the window pane, wanting a way in.
Just like you tried.
He stares at the easel.
The forlorn brush with the pony tail hairs from Japan.
The watercolours, stale with disuse.
The sky lights up again and a grumble sounds.
The storm thickens.
Then he hears it.
A row of knocks, that sound different from the pattering of the rain.
His doorbell had been pounded out of existence before.
Something tells him to go.
He stirs himself and walks to the door.
Someone is there, banging on it.
He wonders if it's him again.
He opens the door, unwilling to fight anymore.
The other, drenched in the downpour.
White shirt clinging to his torso.
Like a prince off his horse.
Dark hair plastered to his face, but oh so beautiful.
I love you.
Heard loud and clear as his almond eyes burn the words into the other's.
And the storm passes.
a/n: happy valentine's day in spite of all storms and downpours.