I have been here before. I have danced to the rhythm of the indolent breezes. I have been lulled to a sleepy torpor by the gentle patter of the summer rain. The exotic scent of wet grass is intoxicating. Even more piquant is the aroma of dusty asphalt, summer baked, exhaling fine tendrils of mist; weaving upward, dodging raindrops.
I have been here before. But then you were with me. You who protected me. You shared the Earthy splendor with me. You were my partner, my lover, my friend. And now, when the elements are just right, as they are right now on this uncommon January day, I miss you with a part of my soul that has been hidden away. The longing is hot under my skin. My eyes burn with unshed tears. And so, I dance alone. We do not reach for raindrops together. Our hands cannot touch. My eyes cannot feast upon your face. And so I dance alone.
I have been here before. The shiny streets of Chicago. Blasting out heat, angry at the summer rain. Repelling the water as it cascades through the alleys, and then heaving a sigh of resignation as it begins to soak it up. Perfume. The soft susurrus and rustle as the Earth settles down and takes a long wet drink. And I find myself turning, and searching, for you. A kindred soul who felt the Earth with me. But you are not here, and my mind skips a beat as it adjusts. I have been here before.