She Writes Poetry?

I stand by the open window,
open, although the rain hits my bare skin
where my clothes hang loosely with heavy weight,

and I, too weak to fix them, stare into the night.

Eyes wide, hopeful,
outlined by dark circles that count the sleepless nights,

I wait. Alone.

Shivering, trembling,
but determined to wait.
Ever loyal. Ever obedient.

Hair stands at attention to the cool wind's whispers,
up my arms,
around my neck,
down my spine.

My eyes are watering from the chill,
from the fatigue,
from the hopelessness.

Branches snap at the wind's hand.
Once so strong as part of a tree,
now fragile.
No match for the might of the storm.

Lightning crashes.

Warmth creeps down my arms
in the shapes of his fingertips.
His comfort envelopes me,
his scent strong.

I begin to give in to his warmth.
His arms hold mine tightly to my sides
and his fingers intertwine mine
connecting us.

Slowly, I begin to step back from the window.
To sleep again, to dream again.
To feel again.

Then I see a glimpse of you.
You've finally come.
The shape of your silhouette,
I'd know it anywhere.

I pull away from him
back toward the window.
Toward the lonely comfort of the open window.

But he doesn't let me. He holds on.
He holds tighter.
I start to slip. He holds tighter.

Sometimes the comfort of the rain
is stronger than the warmth of the sun.

But not this time.