I can remember it well.
We were driving in your car, laughing
and watching the rain and the streetlights mingle on the dashboard.

It amused you that I liked having the window down
in the rain,
but it was July and the nights were warm.

You told me about your childhood--
nothing important,
just those little stories that stick with you for years.

Of course that was the turning point; I should have known it then.
But we took no notice.
We were young and excitable, hiding mutual passions for each other.

We wished for thunder, and we waited. In those years,
summer always meant storms.
And storms were like magic:

we could hold hands and watch the lightning
flash across the sky, illuminating our grinning faces,
and the exhilaration lasted for days,
lingering like the electrical charge in the air.