Sometimes, in dreams, you hurt me. Sometimes, in similar dreams, I hurt you. I close my eyes tight, count invisible raindrops imagined falling from our crooked ceiling fan, and I will myself to sleep. Intimacy is a tricky thing, as is love. I still wonder if I am any good at it. Those dreams, they seem so familiar, as does that kind of hurt.
The rain, it sounds like forgiveness. The sleeplessness, it feels like guilt. Perhaps the former will wash the latter clean off of me. But, I have been wrong(ed) before.