The power of love to endure is stronger than the power of hate to destroy, but love is also like a fine glass of matured malt whisky, full of complexities and open to overindulgence.
At least whisky has a taste, and can be dosed, poured to a desired quantity: with love the glass is always full to the brim or dry, and nothing in-between.
True whisky tasters know that a dash of water into a tumbler of single malt releases the chemicals in the whiskey and therefore the taste, and bouquet. A downpour, and walk in the rain often does the same for love.
In fact love does not properly exist without rain, though raindrops on train windows are dangerously close to tugging too hard on emotions.
And yet, indulging in a train ride in a downpour does something for the soul. It is always better on the train. There is that line, in Casablanca, about standing on the train platform in the pouring rain, silly grin on the face because of the feeling of the stomach being kicked in, when she does not arrive on the train, that kind of sums it all up.
at the end of summer
we never kissed
and now I can only miss you
on the platform in the rain