Tumult
To love you is like being
Pulled apart by a storm
A storm in the shape of you
Seared into wishful memories.
Flying in all directions, my thoughts
Scatter
At every glimpse of your
Smug little smile
Unaware of the power it holds,
Destructive yet so fucking beautiful.
You don't show that one
Not often
Not when stares fill
The vacant breaths
Between “wait” and “go”
And maybe a couple of whys.
Loud is the world
When it demands
So is your love, or mine,
To be
Precise
In our wording.
Screams, shouts, yells
At me to inch closer
To you
Miles away
Thundering in the distance.
I've always been a little afraid of thunder.
Cruel is the expectation,
So is your love,
Sorry, mine.
Precision.
Precision.
Without blinking,
In a heartbeat
Chokes me in its
Endlessness and
Impossibility.
But does the heart ever listen?
No.
Neverending is the pressure
Of duties, chosen or unwanted
So is my love for you.
Look at me
Being
Very
Fucking
Precise.
Just like I promised.
But you never did, did you?
I had just made myself
Believe that
I could chase after the storm, after you
And come out unscathed.
Oh, all the sweet little lies
We tell.
Indifferent is time
When it flows through space
So is your love for me.
Ha. Swapped. Got your attention now?
Just an expected detachment, unassuming in its politeness
The smell of rain in the air
Doesn't care about the
Flowers blooming in hope
That one day,
The storm will notice the soil.
Maybe.
Yet, petrichor is still
Just a word Doctor Who taught me.
Clouds of your voice cover the sky
Right before the storm hits.
Rich, dark, but deceivingly soft.
Syllables drip from
Your lips,
Oh how many hours I've spent
Hiding in corners
Memorizing your rhythm
Your cruelest attribute, perhaps.
Or not.
Maybe it's your laugh, crack
And rumble
A chest one
That's the one I love the most.
Reminds me of all the things I miss
Without even having them
Once.
Yet, in all their majesty,
Storms are still natural,
Normal,
Mundane with a touch of magic.
Humble miracles to the unknowing eye.
How pathetic, falling for something so ordinary.
And perhaps, that's why
The tumult you cause in my soul
Terrifies me in
Its precise ordinariness.
It's okay to still love normal things, right?
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