The calm
before the storm haunts me
with its emptiness so thick,
like the foggy memory of a
moment past,
where I can recall only the clouds
drifting amid the rustic skies above,
and the taste of your lips against mine,
and the feeling of your breath against my neck;
and nothing else.
Here and now,
all I taste is the nostalgia nested in my throat,
all I feel is fear as I gasp for air
in the stillness of the present,
careful to stir the nasty weather’s caprice
from its halcyon slumber.
Perhaps, if I lie in wait
in silence,
still,
the storm will forget it’s due,
and I’ll feel once more the breeze of the world
as she exhales against my neck.