Sometimes she crosses his mind, like when it's raining outside, and it seems a perfect scenario for a movie and some flesh warming. Those early spring mid-nights that arrive so hushed and quiet, begging for the warmth of another's company. It's not a particular 'she' he thinks of but rather more like an amassment of all the women he has ever made contact with. He may have a hatred inside of him for all of these figures, but there is also an excessive amount of love, an undying attachment...a melancholy derived from the act of missing someone deeply.
He stares transfixed outside his window, where a nearby street lamp illuminates the part of his pebble-on-cement street; where the leaves carve the light in half, creating curves that resemble a half moon or better yet, the curvature of her body.
His eyes grow dense with each drop of rain clashing on the windowsill, letting each tap and cackle put him to rest, where his brain will project inward wants and needs, visually and vividly, until, being too good to be true, his eyes release the weight, and the rain continues cackling amongst the reality, reminding him that all this thinking will never cease. Thinking too much can frighten and haunt a man, much like a vacant, hushed night in the beginning of May, where raindrops are memories that never desist.