Sometimes you slide out of a conversation, Marcus, observe the speaker as if from a distance, the walls blurring, his jaw moving, his words tripping over each other until they coalesce into a fatuous hum. And you wonder just who that other person is or even if you are really there, listening.
A rain cloud watching the storm.
The theatre of the sky, the melodrama of concentrated light and sound, The incongruity of high decibel hyperbole where just the soft murmuration of a rain shower will do. What does that cloud make of the hoarse declamation of thunder or the fiery histrionics of lightning, when all he wants to feel are the petrichor scented arms of the whispering earth.
Perhaps, the best rain clouds are the ones watching the monsoon deluge inside their own heads. From a distance.
Because when the rain abates, in that momentary pause of silent dark, you know where you are, why you are there and even…
Who you really are.
how much of the rose
is what I see
how much, just the wind