Cold Panes and Bare Feet

I woke up at 6:45 this morning. And then I went back to bed. But not sleep. Until 6:47, and then 6:56, and then 7:05, and then 7:15, and then 7:23, and I finally got out of bed at 7:28. It had stormed a few hours earlier. I know because I woke up at exactly 4:20 a.m. to rains and winds beating on the window, throwing trash cans into apartment buildings and stretching telephone wires like sling shots. I jumped out of bed and leaned my forehead against the cold glass. The sky was light pink, from pollution and streetlights, and I thought everything looked so beautiful that way. And then I stretched a little, and went back to bed. And tossed and turned and slept and woke at 6:45 a.m.. And I only went back to bed because I thought I should. Because as restless as I was, I was tired too. And when I woke up at 7:28 and climbed out of bed, I saw only puddles and wet and white grey skies, and I wished that I had stayed awake with my face against the glass. Wished that it was still storming outside. That I could climb up the slippery black ladder right outside the shaking panes and onto the roof and jump and play and dance in the rain until I was soaked through, icy cold and sneezing. I would tire quickly, because I was tired to start, but I would throw my head back and let rains hit me sideways and let wind send chills down my spine and my feet would be bare and frozen on the sandpaper shingles beneath them. But I didn't. I pressed my forehead against the cold glass for a minute and stared wide eyed outside. And then I climbed back into bed and imagined being outside. It was 7:28 when I finally got up.