“A flower has no tongue yet it tastes the rain”

Moonlight interrupts a darkened sky,
the air is drenched in rain.
Frangipani trees bend
against the wind, their offerings
dotting the floor like Millefleur tapestry.

I pick up a single plumeria,
feel the soft skin of its petals,
twirl the delicate leather of its stem,
and watch the dampened flower
dance, throwing off raindrops
in a drunken hurry.

The delicate frangipani is smooth and
succulent between my fingers.
Both our skins are soaked. Water cascades
down each of the soft white tips,
sliding down my hands to disappear
within the moss wrapped ledge.

We’re both temporarily quenched.
We’re both temporarily content.
Only one of us will taste the rain again.
Only one of us endures that truth.