KinkyJon

I light a fire but the flames do not take. The kindling tonight is damp. For the past forty nights we prayed for rain, Eleanor and I. Spoke of our longing for relief from the acrid oppression and our fevered weariness. A layer of dust-turned clay still clung to her skin like egg shell. The rain could not shift it, no life would surface. Nor would the flames allow release, either for her being or in my begrudged comfort. Curse the new rain I thought, yet as another fresh drop fell upon my lip, I tasted it with fervent glee.