Right now, I'm sitting at home, reeling from one more day of flight. My chamomile tea is making me see ghosts. It's midnight and I haven't slept in two days.

You tell me that this is going to be difficult. Now, I've spent enough time teaching seven year olds to juggle to know that difficult lessons must be fun, or they will not be learned. So this is going to be fun. Agreed. Fun is now our codeword for mind-breaking. It's okay. I came to you with gravel in my head.

Right now my chin hurts where I hit the concrete last week. I run my tongue of my chipped tooth and remind myself to get it fixed. I found a chip yesterday in the laundry. So bitty, insignificant, and the rift in my body feels so vast.

Sometimes our brains get so solid, so hard and fast. Mine got fractured, and pieces of yesterday float around like orphans. The old homes they broke off from are now smooth, -their rooms are demolished, or filled with fake christmas trees and ornaments- and they can't can't CAN'T fit back in. And my brain is changing now, into something that won't let me cry. Only leaks every so often.

Until you called on my tears.

The first time I cried on you, it was to mourn my past. You helped me grieve and you let me rain all over your big heart.

Today I chased you through the rocks. The ice melted off the walls of the chasm and I tried to catch, to drink the drops as they fell from temporary castles of solid water. I climbed over and under, slippy and cold, dry and sunkissed boulders.
I invaded your fortress and filled it with snow, but somehow it was warmer for it. Snow is an insulator, and maybe also it's a comfort that I brought my cold and low to you for melting. I'm free and easy with my peaches and sunshine, and liberally spread my dark and weird. I throw my fires and rage in every direction, but my sad and lonely is reserved for you. Some would call it a cheap deal, but I know you prefer it this way.

As you are the only one who gets to feel my rain.