How like a thunderstorm.
Beginning in temperate times,
Warm words float
With a gentle laze
Between her and him,
From him to her,
Refreshing in their kindness,
But, already, there is a wind,
With the faintest chill
Carried across the undertones,
Cutting, slowly,
Across their skin.
Then comes the rain;
Tears dash themselves
To the ground
Like a suicide of regrets,
And the air is cold,
And gray,
Between them.
Before too long,
Hot, jagged words
Flash from mouth
To ear to mouth,
Sizzling with anger,
Thunderous with recrimination,
Blinding in their intensity.
Blinding and frightful.
What is next is inevitable:
That one of those words
Strikes the dry kindling
Of insecurity and sensitivity,
Bringing forth a conflagration
That mere tears cannot quench.
