Rainsong

The distant thunder enfolds my thoughts
drifting dreaming tucked in the corner
of some affliction of my mind
as the patter of the drops of rain sound
upon the roof, a recollection of the time
spent outside the realm of conscious thought.

I roll to my side, my hand light upon
your sleeping shoulder, where I watch
the dark grays of the night glisten
beneath the streetlight and listen
for the hiss of tires on the soaked street
crescendo and fade with each passing car.

Now that I have painted the canvas
of this scene where do I go from here?

The words of my heart are imprisoned
by the years of solitude and neglect
and the assumption that you would always be here,
that you would always understand.

In this crystal moment of self-induced honesty
I watch your sleeping face graced by the age of time
and wonder who is this stranger that completes
my thoughts with the words I would least expect
yet must admit have a certain logic that is most often correct.

But perhaps this is too shallow,
perhaps this tact fails as a pin prick to deflate
the balloon of my self-importance,
perhaps for too long I have shamed us both
with my lack of self-awareness
of the world around me.

So for now I will utter these soundless words
to your sleeping form and accept the fact
that I am far too imprisoned by my fears
to be of use to anyone outside of my exile
and for now I will slide quietly from the bed
and go sit upon the porch where in my isolation
I find the only comfort I can know within this rainsong.