He spoke of drizzles and hurricanes
Like people were weather patterns
Unpredictably complex
Wrapped in mists and winds
Of varying intensities.
He spoke of sleeping
Like night was something to revel in
Instead of dread
With its dark passages and eerie sounds.
He cast her bronze skin in silver linings
Like clouds that only seemed to promise rain
When summer heat became too harsh
And throats parched for relief.
He spoke of her ecstatic beauty
Curves that defied description
And forced admission of a higher power
Whose creation beg its worship.
He spoke of her as a dream he always had
Yet never realized or appreciated
Till the light of day dispelled her life.
He spoke of her passing
Like a faltering breeze
That toppled trees
And fed the all consuming blaze.
He spoke of her warm taste
That lingered on his tongue
Like words unspoken in vanilla
And old cigarettes mixed with wine.
He wrote her out of the labyrinth
But always seemed to find her there
Searching—
Clawing at the walls for some escape
From her inability to forgive herself
And forget the times she was never enough.
She was a storm in his eyes
And she never saw in their reflection
Her capacity for changing misconceptions
And the truth
That while all storms bring destruction,
Sometimes you have to break—
Before you can build again.
Moonlit Poetry 