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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