Storms coming

The sky bruises purple,

a slow fist unclenching over the ridge—

clouds roll in like old debts,

heavy with what they’ve carried too long.

Wind sharpens its teeth on the pines,

whispers warnings no one wants to hear.

Lightning cracks the dark like a match,

then swallows itself whole.

I stand at the window,

counting seconds between flash and roar—

each one a heartbeat borrowed from tomorrow.

Rain taps the glass, polite at first,

then hammers like it’s owed something.

Storms don’t ask permission.

They arrive, they rage, they leave

the world quieter than before—

wet earth steaming,

air tasting of iron and new starts.

So let it come.

Let the thunder shake loose

whatever I’ve been holding too tight.

I’ll wait it out,

coffee cold,

eyes wide,

alive in the noise.