Petrichor

The nascent rain arrives at her balcony, it's heavy cascading, shouting out and whispering her name, both at the same time.

Its tiny but heavy pearls touch her skin and slowly fall onto her eyes, her twenty -one pimple and onto her outstretched palms.

Every intake of air is accompanied by its petrichor emanating from the grass in the garden beneath.

As she places her face out at the rain for it to fall, up above her the lights twinkle and she blinks, a million times each second, getting the waters off her eyes.

She pulls herself forth, away from the rain, with the roof protecting her head.

It feels heavy, her head, with the rainwater trying to seep through.

A smile creeps onto her face, eyes that were dead not so long ago, bloom, like an aster; her lashes peel open – the petals, and her eyeballs – the nectaries.

She blossoms.

She is the aster; upon whose petals the raindrops fall like dew.

She is the flower; whose head rises up as the rain slowly takes over.