Hiding Hearts From The Rain

The rain has come, landing softly in silent rhythms. Silently enough to keep us awake at night without anger. We breathe like the rain falls, afraid that the slightest interruption may cause a crack in the sky, or crack our chests open again spilling out our depraved longings for America. So we keep the sheets up to our neck.
The rain can do such a thing to a man and his woman. The way it stirs you up, makes your head crazy until you're sitting cross-legged on your bed, sheets around your waist, looking your lover in her wide eyes, and she is willing to listen to you and love you because you have an idea, a mad introspection, a daring translation of the heart. And so you translate: I miss America terribly. I know a guy back in Ohio, and a way to make some money.
But you've done it before and now you know better. You know not to let the rain speak for you. Nobody really knows a guy in Ohio, and you certainly don't know how to make money.
As for America, the rain will tell you that everyone is having a good time and is moving on in their lives. Everyone is a postcard image, a childhood memory.
But we know now that no one is moving on or is having a good time; they're all crawling like spiders trying to scratch it out from day to day. So when the rain falls silently like this, we tuck into the web we have scratched out for ourselves, and we think of all the rain tucked into all the pockets of the earth and how god-damned crazy everybody will be should we lower the sheets, expose our hearts and crack open the sky.