When you’re a writer, every moment becomes something to write about.
Rainfall hasn’t been just rainfall in years; it’s an understanding that sometimes the clouds need to cry.
Sometimes the atmosphere just needs to scream, but you gave that outburst a name, and allowed it to roll heavily through your lips; thunder.
The night he kissed me for the first time in three years, I felt the heat of lightning, but never got struck.
I still can’t tell if that’s what it means for something to be electric, or a warning.
When the wind tripped over it’s own exhale, and blew my hand just a little closer to yours, I took it; courage was always my strong suit, but never this delicately.
I labeled my resistance against you as strength, and I am so tired of being seen as too strong to love.
Did you only lift me up high so I would fight harder in the fall?
I’ll wait for the answer. I know there is always a catch.
Amaryllis Kai from California on July 14, 2020:
I loved this poem, great work! And great visual :)