How often I think about the weather. How often I long for the storm.
I haven't cried this much in months and months. I haven't been on the edge of crying so much in a year. Outside, a hot haze. Pavement. Dry. Perhaps I'm compensating for the lack of moisture and emotion out there. If only a storm would come. If only I could hear thunder, transfer the turmoil to the sky.
Right now, the clouds are getting darker while I'm inside trying to get light.
I love you very much, dear. When you are ready, I'm here. Anytime.
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