Oh, wait—
in rain, a cloud returns,
not of tears, not of rain,
but of thunder.
A simple claim:
last and forever.
Her thunder seems too ferocious
to speak to,
too fierce to ask what I’ve done.
And still, I wonder—
Have I done something?
Something terrible, perhaps.
Maybe it was love.
Or perhaps—
the terrible thing
was that there was none.
Letters from Xhale the magazine Words that breathe. Stories that Linger, 