Spree 6

Rain falls
in warm, gentle riots
of a billion beads
that relentlessly speeds
to inevitable annihilation
of ground level impact
for the grace
of the tiniest hope
to be one
of a glorious few
that lands on your tongue.

Rain falls
to slide the caress,
that path from cheek
of a tilted head
and lick you down,
down so far along
arched neck,
heaving chest
and finally
that in-between
Nirvana.

Rain falls
just to dampen,
or in folly
to wash away,
the only thing hiding
your tightening tips,
bending back
and trailing thighs
covered in cotton
so thin, tantalising,
tempting every drop
with the illusion
that it will become
the one breaking
through to you.

Rain falls for this,
so why wouldn't I?