Waiting | poetry

Yesterday I sat beside my window

waiting silently as the rain came down.

Across our narrow alley was your window,

no illumination from within.

I reached out to touch your pane,

wondering how it felt on your side of the way.

As my fingers met the cold glass,

I heard a distant roll of thunder –

from which direction it came, I don’t know.

(possibly from within?)

It’s strange that our houses almost touch

but our eyes have never met.

You must not see outside your world,

for I come here every day,

and hope that you’ll notice me here,

waiting.

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