the meteorologist watches and waits;
she maps out the heartache thunderclouds,
the soulmate fog banks, always getting ahead
of herself with questions in flirtations,
jealous guesstimations
just trying to get straight
will it rain tomorrow?
did the sun mean what it said?

but the storm chaser doesn’t bother;
she keeps herself running instead,
missing contemplations of mundane conversations,
and she craves coffee shop temptations,
lightning bolt starts to her heart,
kisses traded with misread hurricanes
and tornado devastations,
because at least it will be what she loves
that finally tears her apart.

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