(They were for us, and us alone.)*
The rain, it is my comfort,
when I sit, alone, in darkness,
my thoughts completely consumed
by you.
I lay sprawled,
flat on my back,
feet up, resting against the cold hostile wall,
stubborn red hair flowing tangled beneath me,
and wonder, how might life be different,
had we not parted from each other's worlds,
had we dared to be brave, dared to be strong,
looked life square in the eyes, hand in hand
and made a run for it.
Made a place in this world,
for us.
I think about our share of love for storms.
Our way of being soothed in the dead of night,
by a steady, unmistakable rhythm carrying on
just outside the window.
It made us feel safe. It made us feel as though
our place really did occupy this land,
somewhere,
and we,
in our youth, could face anything.
Together.
I try not to regret, but do anyways,
the paths we chose instead.
Separate ones, leading in opposite directions,
while still confining us under the same sky,
leading to a point of ignorance,
a point of near unrecognition.
I dream of another choice, one that brings us back,
to the people we once were -- but in secret, only for each other.
This very moment might then not even exist.
But then the thunder calls, pulling me back to my true place, and that's when I remember:
that is not my reality.