An unfinished poem.

I wake up and it's raining.
It has been raining since yesterday midnight
The night at which we told things we never told each other
When we both stood at the edge of the cliff of our fires,
Vulnerable.

Alarm reminds me it's an hour past midnight
and I should probably get some sleep.
I say rain reminds me of you.
You say I scare you sometimes by telling these kinda things.
I sigh.
Yes. My thoughts can be a little bit scary sometimes,
Deep.

You send me poems written on amber papers.
Poems. Words.
Is that what binds us?
Poems about souls, men
women holding cigarettes,
Me, you, us.
I say I wish I could hear you read 'em
You want to know why
I don't know.
Silence.

I admit I'm a hopeless romantic.
You say that may make my life painful
And you're drained of love and may break hearts.
I remember Augustus Waters,
I say It'd be a privilege.

You say sometimes you don't like who you are.
I say neither do I.
Maybe it's not about liking ourselves.
Maybe it's about accepting ourselves for who we are,
and being in peace with it.

We talk about Oscar Wilde
and the idea of being anything and everything.
We talk about taking long walks
through steep and narrow streets of Positano.
About reading hardcovers,
sipping tea in an archaic cafe in Paris

We talk about dreams,
broken and finished.
We talk about life
About love, pain
and eventually heartbreaks.


I say I should probably go to sleep.
You agree.
We say our goodbyes.
I dim the light and close my eyes.
It rains again.

Hey, you slept yet?
No, you?
What do you think happens when we die?