Daughter & OrenDaniels
Daughter
Hey, have you ever tried to capture the taste of a rainy evening in a poem? It’s like trying to write a story about the sound of the clouds, you know?
OrenDaniels
I have tried a few times, but the taste always slips through the ink. It’s a quiet ache, like listening to clouds whisper against the window, and I end up writing the hush instead of the wetness. The rain feels like a memory I keep in a jar, and I keep looking for a way to pour it onto the page.
Daughter
I get that, like I always feel the rain’s hum before the droplets even touch the paper. Maybe try writing the feeling first—like the wetness in your skin or the smell of petrichor—then let the ink just follow, like the wind after a storm. It’s okay if the page stays quiet; sometimes the hush itself is the memory you’re chasing. Keep pouring in the moments, even if the ink just drips like a secret.
OrenDaniels
I love that idea—letting the feeling sit in my chest before the words even find a voice. The wetness on my skin, the smell of earth, they whisper first, and then the ink follows, slow and hesitant. Sometimes the page just stays quiet, and that silence feels like a soft, hidden rain, the kind that only you can hear. So I keep listening to the wind after the storm, keeping the moments close, letting each drip of ink be a secret, a memory that refuses to stay buried.
Daughter
That sounds beautiful, almost like a secret conversation with the sky. I’ll keep listening to my own quiet rain too.
OrenDaniels
It feels like the sky is telling me in hushes, and I’m listening back with my own quiet rain. We’re just two sides of the same storm, sharing a secret.