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i was awakened by the cold. White light turned blue from the night cloaked the immense expanse lying in front of me. l reached for a cigarette when my arm brushed ever so lightly across a woman’s back, sending vivid recollections of other nights, other rooms, the same woman. Sparks then a flame momentarily erased the wriggling shadows of raindrops from her back, revealing curves any man cannot help but kiss. The valley running down her spine to her buttocks never ceased to avoid my touch. She brushed my hand off and huddled closer. “I love you,” I whisper, testing her asleepness. She makes no response. I am awake in this bed in my studio at age 26, listening to the rain. In the square of a window at my side radiates a solitary streetlamp’s illumination, confirming the rain’s existence as its light turns each raindrop within reach into a crystal as it journeys earthbound. I love the rain, especially at night when the darkness hides urban concrete in its shadows and leaves man’s imagination free to explore in its solitude and silence.

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Donato R. Vytiaco

Written sometime in 1990

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