The sun is high and hot in the afternoon’s empty sky.
To you I say, This has never happened before,
And somewhere above the mountains the clouds rise dark and rumble and shatter.
You say, I miss you.
And now I’m afraid to move. The walls flash white and the smell of dirt rises to meet the falling rain.
I say, And when summer is gone?
And you say, I’ll miss you.
The clouds move pass the mountains and fall on other towns. Perhaps yours.
I’m afraid to go outside. I’m afraid of what I’ll see. I’m afraid of what you’ll say.
You like the mountains have power. You create and move the storm.
And I am down below, looking to the sky, wondering if you’ll come down, or if I can go up.
It is only miles between you and I. Only mountains and dirt and air.
I want to destroy them. Suck them into the vacuum of space.
But what are we without the distance? It defines our movements and shapes our words.
Mine are simple words. Unlike the storm, they go on. Like the mountains, they stay the same.