The cliché was so obvious, looming over us, ominous,
a veil that would not lift, pulling wool over our eyes, and then disguising the itch.
It was a cloud that would not pass. Hiding out under the overpass,
we saw the approaching wall of water not far in the distance,
it mirrored our resistance to the motions, inconsistent with emotions.
Swaying with the gusts, we shouted our desires,
but the roar of disaster was to near to hear what the other had cried,
and in the confusion, our desires all but disappeared, our wishes all but died.
Though at this point I suppose it wouldn't have mattered
if the storm hadn't left us beaten and battered.
Maybe we would have eventually figured out
that those shouts never overlapped, parallel to the feelings devout.
Our sentiments never intersecting at just the right second,
our spirits never matching, merely foretelling future regret.
And how we thought we found "the one" in a world so vast…
We were "young and in love," never destined to last.