Within each of us is all the places we have ever been to, except they are still, and empty, and always too cold, and for now, you pretend to believe them only when you feel exactly like they do.
You wake up again with the rain coloring your windows and you do everything you possibly can to be still and simply hear it.
I listen for you the exact same way.

Even in our slumber when we are too tired to see, the world is ever changing, showing us more and more as we look. In the sidewalk, and the dinners you had at a young age that were filled with people and beautiful china set before your hands (but always without sound) you found all of the ways to be lost and have been looking for a way back home in every person you meet.

Even the rain, the way the world forgives us, the way the world exists in its most innocent form, is only present long enough to remind us that all this place will ask of us is to seek the substance of its composition.
And it sits there falling on your window, as if there is always a place for things.

The world began slowly, step by step, like honey dripping off its comb.
The world began like it knew how it would end.
And on Sundays when your feet brush against the wood floor on your porch, and you sit there peeling oranges with the wind inbetween your fingers,
you find it.