I don’t lay awake most nights.
And maybe I should, I don’t know.
I don’t dream about you anymore.
Or at least I try not to.

But the things I do—
Everything trying—
Intend to take me further away
From where we’ve been.

But when summer rains percuss the roof of this porch,
When thunder argues in the distance,
And lightning photographs the purple night sky,
I can’t help but wonder who you are now.
I can’t help but remember,
Even if only briefly,
What it was like to sit next to you,
And feel like we might just be infinite.

This the story of where we last were before the rains came.

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