Most would say to their beloved, “you are my sun and my stars,” or “you are the moon,” because they are a source of life to them, a symbol of light and happiness. You, however, are not the sun. Dearest, you are the rain.
You are the gentle sound of rain droplets rolling down my bedroom window in the morning, the methodical catching of a million thumps by the oak leaves only feet beyond my wall. This sound is the most pleasing in all the world that no symphony or orchestra could dream of echoing. This sound is peace, for only the rain can give me contentment telling me I may stay in bed and cast all my burdens aside. This is the sound of your voice.
The rain may trickle so light as to the only kiss the ground it nurtures lovingly. It shows patience and kindness for the budding flower in full knowledge of the temperance it must show, else the flower will never grow. This I love you, your gentle touch that seems to trickle through my very soul, nurturing me so that I may endure.
Like the trickle, the rain may also storm creating havoc through monsoon and thunder. Its power and majesty in destruction lay unmatched to the natural world. This too I love you. Like the storm, I see your greatness in change and creativity, approaching at a moment’s notice. Beauty in the role of the thunder, and excitement at the unpredictability of lightning that draws closer.
What strength you possess that can wipe away that which is yielding and create room for the new, that our love may never grow stale or old.
The sun is for the leaves, though often it burdens me, it dries me up until I see myself losing leaf by leaf. And in the winter when the sun neglects me I grow sad and wither. Yet you, the rain, know that I am not a leaf, but that I am the root. I have placed myself in the ground waiting for you to come to me, and while the leaf may reach after the light that it sees, I must wait in good faith that you will fall for me.
I do not covet the leaf who basks in the enduring light, taking pleasure in the company of those that perish in the winter, for my rain will surely roll right off of them and they unknowingly will guide her to me.
The sun touches Mars, yet it is water we all look to for life. The sun is beautiful, but I cannot stare at the sun as I would with you. I cannot let the sun touch my skin, as I long for you to do. The sun bakes the ground which lies under it too long, cracking it and making life and love barren from that place.
But you, my dearest, are the savior to my soul like the rain is to the crop that the farmer must grow. In the drought I find myself in, I do not pray for sun, I pray for the rain.
