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.