Always Raining
By Vincent Piazza
By Vincent Piazza
It was raining, always raining.
Wet, dripping off the tip of his nose like a grainy black and white Kodak photograph.
The street smelled of crisco tinged anal sex and sour pomegranates.
His long drawn out sigh Extended out into the fourth dimension, bellicose spiders cutting out paper dolls with titanium scissors.
The green and red laser beams reflected off of the dirty oil slicked street water.
She smiled, and licked the rainwater off of my nose.
The bus never came, the rain never stopped, and his time was coming to an end.
He turned to watch his life pass in a slow splash of an oncoming car as he stepped off the curb.
She wept, and still, it never stopped raining.
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