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.
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
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.