i think i have been here before, the place where the storm is at, but i am waiting it out, i will sit and wait it out. the crickets start up, just outside my window, and i wonder what it might be like for things to be more simple than this, for the rain to just fall, like it is falling now. back to the place where we were all suitcases and i was sitting on the floor. back to a certain weight to my shoulders, a downward pitch to the afternoon as it rumbles into night. the window lights up, every now and then, with the heat the clouds are throwing down, and next to it, i wonder if you can see my face. i wonder about how different things could have been, if both of us were different, and braver, if both of us had said all of these things in the beginning and not the end. we built things, didn't we? with our hands and other parts, with the way that there was something in the crook of your elbow. there was a time, i remember, when you held a cigarette in your hand at the back of my neck, when, on the street, you hugged that woman, called her a name. and then, later on, when the light crept over the edge of the wall, through the gap in the ceiling and into the room. and then under the lip of the cliff, feet jutted out on the rocks, and the way the ocean was just making noise, not speaking or anything, not even whispering. these are all of the things i remember of you. it is my head that knows different, not my heart. my head is the one i am listening to.