He never liked monsoon. Monsoon has always been an annoying season to him.
"I hate mud!"
And I smiled. I said, "But, I love rain."
He used to sing November rain in the streets. That's how we met, in a rainy day. His eyes were green like fresh leaves, his cheeks were like some vigorous rose petals, and reddish lips. He was wearing a green muffler. And I knew, maybe! Maybe the love is a lavishing creature like him. I am not afraid to say, he was the reason of my all wet dreams.
As usual, the monsoon had to leave, the November appeared very soon after couple of months, or I can say, a pleasant reason came to him for singing. Foggy mornings embraced us like some hazy scarf. Maybe we were still in love. Or, love was still cuddling us.
"Bruno, why don't you sing that song anymore?"
He smiled and said, "We're too old for whiskey lullaby now."
The road was full of silence, the colour of grasses were fading, as if all green were hiding behind some unfavourable greys.
Then I started to mumbling,
"The rumours flew, but nobody know how much she blamed herself,
For years and year..."
He looked at me, with those stoical eyes. And we both knew silently, this was our last singing together.
Then, December appeared. We were sitting together, under a rain tree. It's 4:51 in Valencia. The sky was grey, the trees became more greyish. He asked,
"Do you remember the night where we first kissed and sang together?"
"No", I lied.
Not everything is meant to be remembered, I know.
He gazed into my eyes. I whispered, "Why can't you say that we are no more together?"
The leaves crunched under my feet, dry and yellow. The breeze seems like forever cool and calm. My cold hands were holding the green muffler softly. I wasn't blessed enough to bid him the last goodbye. However, I was too blind to see, love is not some lavishing creatures like him, rather each other's swapping emptiness with some inner notions.