Crashing, the thunder and rain
Demolish themselves carefully
Against my bedroom window;
I do not sleep there. Their deaths
Are lost upon me.

Shining, watered down.
This utter course of frown
Does cause many varied kinds
Of dismay. In the rain,
I search my brain for hope
That this storm may pass;
The horror, this piercing kind of
Trembling, begs me to run.
If only I could decide.
The trap that is the room
That holds me does not offer
The same comfort as the cushions
Of my bed. I cannot go there.
He rests there.

His picture digs deeply
Into my soul and forms itself
A nest so high that it can
It will avoid the lightning,
And yet not the fear;
But this fear is not like the other.
This fear is more like a brother:
It teases and hits and uses words
That strike like bricks and
It tears me down. It makes me
Feel like I can do nothing; not
With this body, not with
This mind. And yet, his picture
Still grins and outlasts the torrential
Downpour, the flood, the fire,
The lightning and the slings
Of the soul.

I ask myself,
"Should I trust my face
Enough that I might brace
Myself enough to take the leap?
Should I cross my fingers,
Perhaps across my heart,
And hope I can ingrain myself
Into his?"

And yet the answer
Evades; It strikes,
Much like the lightning,
For a moment or less
Before retreating,
Before teasing me
For my naivety.

Loneliness is becoming
A facet of this face,
An emotion I can hardly
Bear to push off;
The weight of such
Is almost a comfort,
A wall to lean on
For support, to remind me
That I am nothing.