Rainy Days

 

They are for walking under an umbrella, and letting the cold make you treasure the warmth of your bed. They are for opening curtains and letting the darkness take over your place.

In rainy days my soul thinks about other things. It thinks about reading love letters, for example, and about writing them too. Also about meeting people one loves in a café, and snuggling in a sofa making jokes while drinking hot cocoa. 

Gloomy days, the ones you don’t know if it’s 6 pm, or noon, make me weirdly and extremely happy. As if time became a triviality, and what was really important was to calculate how much it would be, in Celsius, the warmth from someone’s skin plus mine when pressed against each other under the same coat. Rainy days taste like shared sorrow. The kind of sadness that, under misty windows, turns into smiles

The best rainy day is spent in the city watching car lights twinkle like in a Christmas tree. The yellow ones that switch fast, the orange ones to turn right, the red one when they hit the brakes, the green ones letting them to go, the honks, and the thunders.

Rainy days, to me, don’t mean closing all windows and staying in bed. To me they are solemn days to melancholically celebrate the happy ending of happiness.