There's a thunderstorm boiling behind my eyes,
so you should be soaking wet:
your hair plastered to your marble-statue head.
But you're dry.
There's an operatic diva love song in my throat,
so you should be applauding:
throwing red roses, blowing kisses at me.
But you're quiet.
There's a glass-shattering, train-whistle scream in my heart,
so you should turn around:
touch my face and softly ask what's wrong.
But you're walking away.
My eyes and throat and heart are as dry
as the bricks in this empty hallway.
My storms and songs and screams stay locked inside
as the stairwell door slams shut.
You'll never know.