I suppose we have a lot of them.
We find new ones to replace,
or at least join,
the one we first find.

I’m sitting at mine now,
Feeling that sense because of it
and because you know thunderstorms
always make me see your face.

Just hearing the quiet rain
whisper your name is enough
to make me stop writing this,

stop writing
and pick up this phone in my lap.

But I don’t.

Maybe it’s the 14-year-old in me,
but I like to think that we talk
through thunderstorms.

I’m the rain, you’re the thunder,
and we’re just sitting in our safe places,
talking like we do.

You, on your mountain of sheets of a bed,
and me, on this wet windowsill of a dorm.

I won’t call you,
because it might wake up your mom,
and your brother wouldn’t hear it anyway.

And anyway, you can already hear
my pen as it drips across this paper.