I tried rain.
I thought the sound might wake you. It fell steadily, then harder. It roared in my head but you didn't move.
I added something a little more solid. Something that would plop heavy like wet sand and stick to your roof.
Sleet. It drummed and hissed right above your head, but your breathing never changed. You were down deep.
I clapped once. Thunder in your ears. The rumbling shook the whole house. You groaned and rolled over, pulling the covers up over your head.
I don't have time for this. I sigh. Your eyes are beautiful when they're open.
Now snow falls silently. Tucking in the ice and gently kissing it goodnight. In the morning, you'll step out into this wonderland, unaware of what lies beneath. You won't recognize my footprints on the driveway so you'll crack your tailbone on the front step and curse me for never stopping by.
You want inspiration? Next time I'll have to hit you over the head.
