You said you were gonna grow up
Then you were gonna come find me

In my head, our hearts are flying with their eyes closed—fingers intertwined while singing melodies of the old days, wandering around the skies until our pixie dust is no more. But there are fairies out there, and each time their wings flap we get another day in the clouds, dancing until our limbs give out.

But it’s all in my head. Truly. There are no fairies, no clouds that we can step on when our bodies get tired from twirling around the sky, and we surely can never fly—no matter what we believe in (fairies, antagonistic pirates, and rose-colored fantasies). We can never believe in Tinker Bell really hard until our feet leap off the ground.

I am not a cloud, but you have always been a lightning.

You are, and will always be, a thunder blazing in the sky; and I will be the madman who chases you forever. I am somehow and somewhat bound to fulfill my thrill of putting lightning in a bottle. But lightning will always be fleeting and yet the sound of your voice rings and ricochets in my brain like an earworm. The impact of your voice outlives the speed of light, and it is, incredibly fast (yet I will keep chasing it).

Until my bones erode and my heart withers, I will stand still where you last strike with a glass bottle in my hand—because lightning never strikes twice, so you won’t hurt me, right? Right?

You hurt like crazy. You—like any other lightning—electrocutes and zaps everyone around you without mercy. But you are so majestic and that’s why everyone only admires lightning when it’s miles away. Not when it’s close.

It’s utterly naive for me to expect special treatment from you. It is to be expected that I get hurt; and somehow it’s bearable when you know you signed up for it. I entered this thunderstorm knowing I could get badly hurt in the long run, but I still chose to stand close for years on end. Well, it hurts. It hurts knowing my heart is so small and her feelings are so big.

My heart has been filled with romance and sibilant intake of sweet nothings. Prince Charming, Darcy, Romeo, Jack.., I wish. Oh, how I wish. Sometimes I cry because you’re mean, and you’re mean most of the time. But I hold onto those rare moments when you make me the happiest thunder-chaser in the world and somehow it’s all worth it. After all, there’s no point in expecting to domesticate a blazing thunder.

Why shame a thunder for striking? Isn’t that its whole purpose?

It still hurts. But why should I want you to change… when you’re not wrong? It doesn’t have to be you but I want it to be you. But if I demanded you to change, wouldn’t it be better if you found someone that wanted you for who you were? And would that make me the girl who lost you—because she couldn’t handle getting struck by a little bit of lightning every now and then?

So do I hold onto confusing hope and belief that no matter how mean you get, you’re still the majestic thunder that I’ve always admired; or do I leave because it will never be fair to ask for any change in a lightning’s habit to strike?

It doesn’t matter if I cried. After all, up here every water droplet turns into rain. My tears no longer hold meaning and I pray that eventually I get numb from everything so you can strike me as you like.

If you figured things out and wanted to change, would that change be caused by guilt from hurting me all this time? Would you torture yourself by forcing change even though you’re made to strike in full glory? Would your entire life be filled with careful steps, curated intricately to not hurt me in any way possible? Would your entire day be dull because you’d grown tired of being careful?

If yes, then I don’t want you to change. I want you to be the lightning that you are. Don’t let me dim your light and quieten your thunder’s clamor.

But I want to be close. I want to feel my hair rising as the static grows thicker and when you have no choice but to strike, I will contain you in a bottle—make you a keepsake.

If I closed the bottle fast enough, would you still be gone in a flash? Or would I grow tired of being in pain and give up chasing after you with a bottle in my hand?

And I won’t confess that I waited, but I let the lamp burn
As the men masqueraded, I hoped you’d return

But how can I truly give up when every blink of any mundane light reminds me of when you used to strike? Any broken bulb, any flicker of a flash, even a fast car’s taillight reminds me of how bright you get. When I entertain someone’s feelings for me, I look into their eyes and each time they sparkle it reminds me of your lightning’s fleeting brilliance.

Forgive me, Peter, please know that I tried
To hold on to the days
When you were mine

If one day, my heart that is shaped like a bottle—that I thought was made to contain you—is made kept and comforted in the hands of someone softer, would I finally retire from this thunder-chasing? Would I finally realize that nothing is better than being loved in the way I’ve always wanted?

But the woman who sits by the window
Has turned out the light