i still feel You, everywhere.

the storm doesn't wait for suitors. it bursts through like an angry bride content to take her own and leave those with nothing to offer. the storm doesn't wait for anyone. and it shouldn't wait for me.
perhaps the breaking of the wind should warn me. too stubborn for signal flares, i disregard the most obvious of omens. i am alone, that is what i believe, and the storm should have nothing of me, because i have nothing to offer.
but here i am, in the storm. the eye is upon me, and silence is my only clue. it is here that i find my loneliness most evident. it is here that i am completely and utterly alone, with my thoughts as my only company. and it is here that hope is void.
yet something in the drops of rain catches my attention at the most unobvious point. nothing worth remembering, i think. nonetheless, there it is, a face. a face with no accusation, only intensity to the uttermost. a face that pains itself at my every move...at my every loneliness.
the storm doesn't wait for suitors, and, it seems, i shan't either. i'll not wait for him, because i know he'll never come. because i doubt his mere existence. because i do not believe our God.
yet something in the air brushes against my skin, and i am here again, shallow and lonely and waiting. like a tumbleweed, tossed by the winds of insecurity, one moment is confidence--the other nothing of the sort. perhaps my bones are less valuable than i once thought. perhaps i have nothing to offer to, not only the storm, but anyone. perhaps the storm--the raging, violent, indiscriminate storm--will not have me because i am worthless. and perhaps that is why you do not exist--because i am worthless alone.
final solutions are completely useless when i have no reason to think that i deserve them. to wander, to please others only, to offer myself utterly to the storm, and to not be accepted--this is life. this is life inside the storm.
the storm doesn't wait for suitors, and when it passes across this dry land, it will not carry me. to call myself cursed because of this occurrence, is to say that i am human. even the storm will leave me, in the end, and i will be alone with no one to offer my feeble possessions.
a second passes, and it is over. the storm is impatient, and gone before i can blink my eye. content to loneliness, perfectly fine without the intensity that was found in the drops of that storm, my eyes survey the canvas that i lie upon. to my surprise, though the storm has left me, you have not.
you who did not exist, now only you exist. i do not exist, because i have nothing to offer alone. but with you, there is everything. with you, there is purpose.
i do not exist, only you exist. and while the storm passes over the rest of the canvas, it is evident that the storm doesn't wait for suitors, and the storm didn't wait for him either.