The Mechanism of Weather

And just like that,

the tide pulled me 

back out drowned.

The low hum of

the current, tuning me

to the frequency of a lost

signal.

When I was little,

the ghosts—

they frightened me

as they

surrounded me in

bed.

Today they grip

my soul, tearing one

piece  at a time,

suffocating me as they

try to escape the

graveyard of memories

haunting my head.

This sadness–stitching

fragments of moments into

emotion woven by the

unforgiving needle of time.

I spoke to the sun the other

night, as she spoke back—

her voice dissolved all the

fright.

The flood shows up in

a flash and I never did

learn to swim.

It comes for me—because

the storm is mine.

Standing at the edge of

the cliff, I’ve learned to

take a step back, but tonight

I cannot control the weather.

But I can see the pattern.

It’s no longer the storm I track

so I embrace the winds

of ambivalence with love

as they fade.

It isn’t poetic.

I know they’ll be back