A TEMPEST

By Sarah Quinn

I miss you dreadfully already.

We have both lived the ways this ends time and time again,

but it’s the question of when that always kills me.

You see,

there is a reason we give names to hurricanes;

your eyes, the colors of the forest after a drizzle

your wit, sharp as lighting. What happens

if there is a storm brewing under your skin?

I open my mouth and apologies fall into my lap .

What I’m trying to say is, “I am sorry I have my doubts.”

What I’m trying to say is, “I am sorry

I wasn’t looking for something serious

until I stumbled across you.”

What I’m trying to say is,

“Can you blame me?

I have known

nothing but

disaster.”

You open your mouth and nectar pours out; flowers bloom

where your tongue should be. What you are trying to say is,

“We may not know it yet, but we already love each other.

We already do.”

But, my dear, it is so soon. A tempest creeps up the coastline.

Maybe we are naive.

Maybe we are only

pretending to be.

Just promise you’ll remember me and how there’s

so much beauty in the rain and serenity

in the eye of a hurricane.


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