Classic Poem

it is very late at night.
my forehead is pressed to
the moist, wet window, and the
drizzling from the silent, gray billows
is patting the pane, my thoughts,
the Bible in my hands.

in my head, you are right
here with me, with your forehead
pressed to mine, our hearts both
drifting in the silence, the pattering;
i wonder to myself, so quietly,
if you're often missing me.

the downpour on the window,
forms a familiar shape I know:
i'll be the umbrella that you
picked up accidentally-
i'll always be here, to keep
the drizzle away.