[So I haven't written much lately. Sue me. :P] Soaked Soaked You came through my door on a rain day, soaked, little boy eyes darkened behind drenched hair, and though I swore I would not let you in, how could I not? Your arms full with clutter and mouth full of answers, dripping on the carpet. You walked right back in like you owned the place, and yes, you did before you left it all behind. You walked in and took a seat by the fireplace like they do in happy old movies and songs, and we played a game, but I lost (I've been playing solitaire forever) I almost let it go, but the rain outside tapped incessantly, and I can't forget the day you left, just like I can't remember why. Why? I'm choking on questions but one is at the very back of my throat thrusting all the others across your lap, cough. "Where did you go," I want to ask, but I'm not sure I want to know. Your feet are propped up on my table. But you don't live here anymore.