She chases her dreams like raindrops chase gravity down a pane of glass
tracing erratic patterns on their way to an end
to merge with others as they collide along the way
breaking free when it's time, taking pieces from each
expanding
understanding
not lonely but always, in the end, alone.

She believes without the benefit of leadership, moving through instinct,
trusting she'll know when she's arrived and in an act of defiance,
a "fuck you" to those who stood by, even while they moved ahead.
She carries her dreams on the outside, like armour
exposed and vulnerable to the world
even as she's wrapped tight
tight enough to hold conviction and strength
to hold her sadness at length
to hold her
everything.

I have to leave before she arrives, but I stay as long as I can.

She doesn't need my help, never did, but I think she liked me as a witness
to prove she was everything they said she wasn't
to remind her that, if not this time, she'll try again
that, without a doubt, she is that strong.

Storms can be a cleansing
a second wind
a chance to mend
and when she needs another drop to chase, the rain will come again.