Can't Sleep with the Rain Outside

Drifting awake to the steady rhythm of rain, the mind wanders to the small, private details: the way sheer nylons cling to toes, the faint scent of washed cotton socks, the flash of a bare heel slipping free. In the hush between raindrops, feet become the anchor of a slow, sensuous reverie. Asian arches peek from beneath blankets, stockings bunched at ankles, toes flexing in the dim light. It’s not about exhibition so much as the tender, electric intimacy of being close to something vulnerable and beautiful. Every soaked window, every soft sheet, every discarded sock adds to the imagination — teasing, suggestive, and utterly adult — inviting a deliciously private fantasy that refuses to let you sleep.