Whenever I wake up to the sound of rain I feel as if he's still alive. The silk sheets are cold against my skin, the room spinning from last night's alcohol and my hair smells distinctly of cigarette smoke. Next to me is Henry, peacefully asleep, I have to touch his lips to see if he's breathing and he is.
He wakes up. "Why are you always so cold" he asks me. I tell him it's because my soul is cold, but deep down I don't believe there is such a thing. He puts his warm left hand between my thighs and goes back to sleep, I'm awake until the sun comes up and it's still raining.
Over breakfast we talk about dreams. I always remember mine but he doesn't, he says he sometimes wakes up with a certain feeling that won't go away and I know exactly what he means. It so often starts with a dream.