86* Fahrenheit

a poem about be and a summer storm

I don't really mind storms. I find them quite soothing. A respite. A reminder that even the sky is sometimes frustrated. The clouds argue, too. And they get so full that they need to let everything out. The sky gets sad, too, and the clouds have to cry. The sky and I are not so far apart. We both feel the same things. We both hurt and need someplace to spill ourselves out. Someplace to let everything loose. A place to bare ourselves naked and vulnerable to whoever is willing to listen. Or maybe to no one at all. Maybe we will just rage and cry and no one will pay any attention. Maybe we will be the only ones listening to each other. Just me and the sky and no one else. Someone else might even ruin it. Someone else might not even understand. So perhaps the sky and I should keep each other's secrets and carrying each other's burdens, just to be safe. We should keep to ourselves. And every time it rains or crashes violently about, I'll look up to the sky and into the rain and whisper, "Yeah, I've been there."