I was so tired of reading this so I deleted the poem sorry....

And when the days grow on the soul
like a shadow at noon,
the night sets in deep, after
the stars retire,
the winds go silent in the valley,
there yet comes a time,
when that throb
of nameless pasts comes alive.

You have everyone,
yet, I know, you have no one:
is this how I love you?

I see you disappear:
the last bird into the swallowing
cloak of the fast-setting night.
After the rains, you disappeared
into the pond, hopping on lotus leaves.

An anger at my lapse,
smoulders on in winter's moist depths;
An anger at yours, hovers over
like the last cloud of the late monsoon.
Yes, when the sky weeps her
agony out,
all the hidden embers glimmer.

Now I open the window and sit longing
for the mellow autumn rains.

I'm thousands of miles above the ground,
and far below me, straight down,
umbrellas are blossoming open
and doors are closing
and those who can are staying inside,
to keep out of the thunderstorm
that I'm watching from up here.

(Lightning looks very different
when you're miles above it.)

And up here, where I am,
the sky is a brilliant hue—
I don't think I could describe it with
azure, or sapphire, or ultramarine—
it's really only describable
with moments.

The sky up here is a perfect day in summer
with your two best friends
and a lot of ice cream.
The sky up here is the day after it snows
and the blanket of white on the ground
is still untouched and sparkling
in the sunlight that's returned again.
The sky up here is letting go
of the thing weighing your heart down forever,
and watching it sail away on dandelion seeds
in the minutes right before
the sun blushes red and pink
and bends down to kiss the horizon.

And miles and miles below me,
the thunderstorm is going on.
So I wish I could tell all the people
who are running to get out of the cold rain
to stop, and to dance in it,
and to make the most of even times like this,
because directly above all the clouds
that are blocking their view of it right now,
the sky is still the most amazing
shade of cerulean ever to exist,
and it always is just as vibrant
wether their situation lets them see it or not.