And like that she became wet.
Undressing before she bathed in the storm.
Umbrella left home, by the door.
She wanted to be cleansed.
Clothes thrown to the side.
Where's the fun in being dry.
To rush every moment that craves to be moist.
Splashing in puddle after puddle.
The Infatuation of being free.
The depth of being caught in a portrait just before it drys.
Covered in layer after layer of heavy blue.
A foam of white.
A kiss that quenches every thirst.
Our lips the brush that sops the wetness.
Forever more.
To purposely be caught without an umbrella