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.

Comments

Amaryllis Kai from California on July 14, 2020:

I loved this poem, great work! And great visual :)