When the storm comes...

Almost always it's just getting dark
when you come back,
when my half-drowsy mind
snaps to the sound of your hand on my door
and memories drip through my veins
like the rain that's beginning to dot the leaves.
As your feet pad across the floor,
the patter of the rain on the roof
fills the room with sound and
lightning flashes,
shining silver across my cold sheets
as you lie in the space next to me.
And I shudder when the thunder rumbles,
because almost always it's just getting dark
when I realize you are gone,
when the memory of your hand in mine
tickles my palm as tears prick my eyes.