Sandalwood swirls beneath the rain,
Sighs spiral from where we've laid.
You and I, love, on this battered couch.
You and I, love, praying mouth to mouth.
Today, it is raining in the Bay. Today, the clouds have been violently lavender and dark blue, with fog spidering over the hills in fluffy currents of moisture. Palm trees stick out at odd angles like aliens from the insubstantial blankets, their fronds drooping in the rain.
Some days, I can see clear across the Half Moon Bay Bridge to the far hills, the slumping remnants of mountains running south to Santa Cruz. Some days, I can see clear to Seattle, another coastal town filled with rain. Some days, I can see forever under a clear and brilliantly blue sky.
Some days, like today, I can't see anything out over the choppy waters, and my coffee mug stays full as I fight off the urge to go home, curl up in a blanket, and watch the windows beaded with drops.
It's not to be. But other things? Well, maybe.
With deadlines looming, documents to edit, and information to chase down, I have time for neither mountain-staring or window-dwelling. Instead, I have to be content with staring out over the rainy industrial park and the highway, wrapped in a faded hoodie. I'm alright with this: the coffee mug is warm between my palms, and the day, though rainy, drifts by in a pleasantly busy haze.
Tonight, curled up with the cat and a fluffy blanket, I'm watching the water bead the windows and the beads reflect the orange of low-sodium light. Tonight, a candle flame is dancing over a bright orange pillar, and Moby's slower stuff is playing, unearthly air over water over echoes.
And tonight, that's more than enough.