Rain must have visited during the night because the streets were wet and the soil was dark as ebony. Through my bedroom window, I could see the sun starting to radiate its rays and I realized heat was imminent. I looked at the road. In a few hours it would be as dry as the words you said, as fleeting as the bliss you allowed me to feel, and as ephemeral as the rainbow that once decorated my skies.

I’ve received my fair share of romantic confessions, yes. People would claim that they liked me. That they liked my smile, the way I write, the way my teeth glimmers in the light. They said they liked my skin, they said they liked how I carried myself. They said they liked my honesty and humour. They said they liked my faith and trust in God. They said they admired my optimism and my intelligence. But you, well, you confessed a lot of nice things, you uttered a lot of compliments and they all slowly lifted me in a cloud of reverie.

The thing with your confessions is that they are truly amazing because they left me with no proof whatsoever that they were ever there. And in a blink of an eye, the cloud I was on vanished and I came plummeting down. You were there and then you were not.

Rain did visit last night I know this because I saw its vestiges, but with light and time, who could ever prove that it did?