Soaked Now.

Rain tested the glass canvas of my window
like a finger painter’s unplanned first stroke.
But it was me who hadn’t planned for the weather.
The umbrella you left me in tatters,
I stare at it as if in a matter of seconds
the fabric will mend itself back together like so many strings of fate.
I wait.
Hoping I won’t have to imitate a stalagmite’s ability to get soaked
and grow from the experience.
Walking in wet weather seems to take forever.
And no matter how hard my eyes press against the mess of meshing metal parts
and waterproof material,
magical umbrella repair won’t just happen.
The same as me believing you saying it was then or never.
Still,
I was surprised that you left and that I let you.
Like the warmth orchards miss when fall descends suddenly,
as if it was up to them.
If it was up to me,
I’d still be lying under the glass canvas of my window
contemplating my first stroke.
You once mentioned that men desperate enough to go for broke can be respected.
So I forgo my rain coat.
I’d get soaked naked if public nudity wasn’t frowned upon.
And I take the first step out my front door toward respect.
Though at this point I only respect moisture's ability to be a pain.
Your name,
the one I see in novels because it’s more common than one would expect,
the same one that floods my mind in front of the mirror
in place of wondering what people are supposed to think of while fixing their hair,
urges my next steps.
Right into one ocean of a puddle.
My sinking submarine sneakers take on water,
but I march on like those lemmings I’ve always despised.
The numbing cold of October's rain that dreams of being snow
sending a knowing kind of shiver to my legs:
I’m getting close to your condo.
I ring the bell
and in a pair of seconds that would probably be perfect for each other
because of how tense they both made me,
you open the door with a knowing kind of smile,
witnessing the moment before I go for broke,
and like a childish artist wrist deep in paint,
take my first stroke.