July's Tempest

I'd been acquainted with a lovely girl, whose eyes served as the means of replenishment for every man who was stricken with the worst of God's thirst. Kneeling, where we'd met, I held my palms out for her tears. For I, was a woman, in urgent need of water.

Every tale of woe is best accompanied by July's tempest. Amid it all, on the steps of the shelter, we remained, filling the hollows of our hearts, and innards of voids we knew not about.

Alas, desiring the warmth of the furnace, I rose. Immediately I was brought to halt by a hand over mine and a voice nearest to my ear, "an angel sent from above, you are."

"Oh, dear. I am most certain, had you been in the soles of these shoes I bear, you would have acted in a manner far more noble than I."

"No one has ever held me like you have. In your absence, I fear my flesh will recognize the skin it embodies no longer. I am in despair and I know not where I will be in state and mind after your departure."

A glance at the light-streaming corridor and another in the eyes of the grief-stricken damsel. And then, "Do you wish for me to stay?"

She cast away her tears, and faced the direction in which I stood holding the hem of my dress above the point of my ankles, so as for it not to be drenched in rainwater. She cast away her tears and faced me with a stony countenance. "I wish not to burden you."

"Then burden me not."

Even now, the wind whistles her name. To drive me beyond sanity, or to taunt, I know not. I know not of her name, nor the being existing behind the title I obligingly carry.

Each cockcrow since, I have searched all but every horizon the sun ascends from. And how mystical is the work of God that my fate, presumingly, lies when rays shine forth from the West.