Your voice is like the sound of rain. 
I'm trapped in this room, 
afraid of reaching out to you 
but I can hear you pleading, 
beating your tiny fists on my windowsill, 
waiting for me to let you in. 
I can see your shape– 
my silhouette 
In the reflection I created myself– 
the one staring back at me from this window– 
is a portrait tinted  
with shades of regret. 
I hide from the wails of the wind 
as it sings mournfully 
of my imprisonment. 
I hold the key 
but the me that wants to go out– 
the one that wants to be one with you– 
is scared. 
How can you truly wear your face 
and not to be alone in this desert  
call the sea? 
Could your bare face endure  
the tears of rain? 
Can someone see all the storms raging ahead 
and still, choose to stay?