A cascading noise,
retribution of the fingertips;
past dawn, past aces and spades;
fueling the fires of rage.

I perfected the art
of adolescent meteorology.

As I stare into this hurricane of love,
knowing that it always razes and ruins.

Still, I know the storm patterns,
the oscillating frequencies.

I am at your mercy, I suppose.
As you run through me
with me, inside of me;
gluing heart to lung to spine.

And everything that’s mine–

Blows in the hard wind,

Uprooted
and no more.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *