missing you

I've been staring at the outside. It's dark, and though she hasn't yet risen above the horizon, what light there is allows me to see the rain; at least, the staccato-like spattering of its numerous, pin-point splashes over the glassy surface of the many puddles that orientate themselves about the unevenness of the road. The breeze that blows through my open window is warm, but am I too, even more so; my hair stands on edge. Comfy, yeah, but I am on the wrong side of the glass.

My predilection for being wet, rather, drenched to the bone, is well documented. I haven't been able to run for weeks, and my energies aren't venting, but they sure as hell have to now; whoah, positively sexual. I guess that today is as good a day as any. I've stretched the offender as best I can, and have only to take it slow, to know what it is my body is telling me, and to watch for that one pain. And I will get wet, flick my hair around like a l'Oreal idiot, and probably grin orgasmically, like a maniac, all the while.