storm drains
There isn’t much else that glimmers the way a city does in the rain. Boston, particularly, with its winding and ruthless roads, has fractals of light everywhere. Especially in the rain. The city lights glisten off the pavement puddles, and with each unique curve in the light, colors bend and warp. This isn’t like New York - gridlined, no. Boston is far more confusing. And the way the chilled, damp wind snaps around the curves of the streets makes you wonder why this isn’t the “Windy City.” It’s charming when it’s not unbearably frigid, similarly when it is not unbearably scorching, it really is a charming city. The only problem is, love has only ever happened here, and love has only ever ended here. This is it. The start, and the end. The same buildings that glisten in the rain and the same fog that rests so low on damp days have watched both the start and the end, over and over and over again. Makes you wonder if they’re mad. The rain, the puddles, the fog. Aren’t they so sick of watching the same failure in this city? When it rains, it gleams, like no other city. So beautiful to me. But each time I fail. Each time, I let them down. I figure it’s my fault. They say they are too busy, or too stressed, but really, it’s me. I love the city, especially when it looks like she is crying; tears of rain streaming down her cheeks made of buildings. And you can hear the crying, the puddles and streams on the road running off into the storm drains. Pitters and patters. The spatter of rainwater onto the sidewalk from cars and buses. I can hear her. Yet I love her this way, because I know she is not really sad, just a bit run down. She too has seen love begin and end. Triumph and failure. Joy and darkness. They are not mad at me - the rain, the puddles, the fog. They are just like me. So, love begins, and so it ends, and so it begins again.
