Droplets left after the thunderously resplendent rain glimmer slightly now. Honest. Simple perfection in the sleepy, mourning light. Truly they are the tears of some greater purpose shed whilst lamenting the quixotic nature of a twinned human existence.

She's gone now. Only a vague scent remains, lingering longer in memory than in tangible form. Its essence, however, infuses various things: items of clothing, pieces of linen, my soul, air in the room.

Most of all my soul. It is as saturated as the ancient earth after the Gods' lustrous reflection.

Just as the now broken storm in all its innocent turmoil had gathered and abated, so does she laugh. A light movement of sweet breath intaken rumples the surrounding atmosphere, soon allowing coiled ropey ripples to unwind, hastening towards their creation of eccentric thunder-peals. The electricity of lightning emanates through her eyes from unseen conductors deep inside her soul, the bolts blindly seeking for -- and connecting to -- my heart. Then, as a storm lulls, the now almost-terrible renting of the air relents and mirthful chortles roll out and around and through us until they fade into the mists of her being.

These are the same mists in which exist a facetious twist to her nefarious narcissism which is usually well enough suited for her emancipation yet when this fails to suffice, her sarcastic subtleties lose their softness and reform raggedly; similar to towering cumulonimbus formations caused when a warm, well-intentioned air current rises through the lower troposphere and interferes with the lower reaches of the stratosphere. A jibe at the Gods -- or the nearest object of playful ridicule: a delightfully nose-wrinkling experience to observe indeed.

The most beautiful girl in the world makes me wet. She causes my matutinal dew. A storm in its own right. A blessing. A trouble. But quietly now, it's trouble of a sublime kind. You know, it's: "trouble, shh...", carefully intoned into a lover's ear accompanied by a fleeting perusal of lips and tug of teeth.

And as the sound of gentle exhalation round a finger on parted lips turns trouble into a warm tingle in the base of my stomach, the carefree breeze carries away all traces of the previous night's turbulence and awakens the mourning light, metamorphosing it into surreal Valhalla.

Now she may be gone, but she's still here.