There are no thunderstorms in California

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There are no thunderstorms in California.

Oh, how I adore the smell of the wet warm earth after a storm. How I would wait to hear thunderous crackle, to see the sparks forged from the sky. But nothing.

There are no thunderstorms in California.

Sometimes, I close my eyes and imagine your sound. I imagine the raindrops that would gently kiss my skin, opening my pores in the most delightful way. I would jump, puddle to puddle racing through the tall grass. Just me and the elements. Once the lightning struck, I would then run into a small stone home. Where it would be warm inside from the fireplace, just in the living room. What a perfect mixture of smoked wood and petrichor. If you open all the windows, you could get a view of the long stretch of land, never ending. Silently, I would watch as the Heavens struck Earth.

There are no thunderstorms in California, but when I close my eyes anything is possible.

the smell of pine

The rain continued to bounce off the glass window beside our bed. It’s been a whole week of nonstop rain. Last night, you said that we should stay inside all day and I suggested that we build a fort, made of all our sheets, blankets and pillows and you agreed. The next morning, it was still raining. I opened my glass window slightly, only to better hear the rain. What a gentle, but violent drum it had, and suddenly the aroma of pine trees had entered our bedroom. You tossed and turned, finally sitting up in the bed. “Morning.” You yawned. “Hey.” I replied looking back at you . Scratching your bedhead, you got up out of the bed to use the bathroom. The more I start to think about it, the more I realized that you were never really the sentimental type, but that was okay with me. You spoke clear and plainly, always straight to the point. You were never great at reading my mind or buying me gifts. So whenever, I was feeling some type of raging emotion, I had to explain it to you, otherwise you would be clueless. Which made being mad at you completely impossible. At times you were bit too practical for my liking, but no one’s perfect. I, on the other hand have always been the temperamental type. Overthinking, over-analyzing, always wanting to know what was on your mind. Sensitive, but ever so passionate. An explosive combustion. “Hey you, can you come back down to Earth now?” you whispered kissing my coiled hair. “Yeah, I was just thinking, you know sometimes this… feels like a dream. ” I mumbled looking up at you. You pulled me back into bed, trying your utmost to convince me that this was surely no dream, then we fell asleep with our hands and legs intertwined.

When I woke, I was laying in a twin sized bed, somewhere in California… alone. It really was a dream, I thought. When I went to look outside, it was raining. I slowly cracked my bedroom window, and there it was. The gentle, violent drum of the rain striking the Earth and the smell of pine.