I can never tell if the storm is over,
if he has passed,
or if he is still coiled around my fingers
drip drop jolts against my wayward spine
curving between the sun and the rise of his smile.

if I could count the pages
of this blue moon occurrence
I could write volumes
with the tip of my tongue

documenting every
slither of doubt
and the tiny star
on mother's optimistic finger
winking and wailing
like a siren

till death do us part,
nursing the broken heart.

he smells like aftermath
while she still sings of rain,
-the bottomless pain
that cannot be satiated.

he rumbles
and laughs
as the kitchen light flickers
on
and
off
like shattered fuse
and splintered speech

all clean shaven and golden toothed
gritty like sand
underneath mother's shoes
that I can tell she wants to get rid of

throw an ocean away
until every bit is swept off
to those uncharted islands off the coast
already prehistoric in her mind.

but still she shifts and smoothes the flowers
soup stained against her lap
still too stunned by the clap of his hands
on her shoulders and the clear look in his eyes
that gets her

every time.

'makes it hard to say goodbye'
she said on a gray February morning
mixing soap water and tears
dishes clanking
as she scrubbed until her hands went raw
and didn't get out of bed for a week.

the
wind inhales
and I know this is it

breeze
blows
while
the
candles
leap
to
thunderous
approval

I look away

catching his smile
slippery serpentine
against the mirror

and I already know
its over
or
you could say

just begun

flying up the stairs
as I lie under my bed
blood rising, roaring fierce
as I swear to never succumb to love
while below
lightning crashes
and the heaven sings above.