An evening waits to be scrubbed. An afternoon hovers like the air in a funeral parlor...the pale unmoving, unbreathing humidity hangs as funeral clothes in a graying sky. It is a day dying, the skies shuttling in mourners of darkening clouds, armbands of black. The sun blinks one last golden stare before closing, dispersing in a flat line of orange before being penciled out by lowering clouds.
The thunder is slight and faint at first, artillery far away. The sky as fragile as fine bone china. It ripples slightly, tremoring. It rattles, stacks of dishes set before a doorway precariously. Ink spills blackening and staining what is left of lightness, and a scented wind carries the hint of copper.
The house darkens and quiets. A light goes out, the hum of the refrigerator stalls and ticks. A lowering grumble of something unleashed, still so distant away. The storm, like some unredemptive lover stalking after its prey shines bright and pretty lights in dark places, followed by the crush of her fists. Kicking in the doorway, crushing the fine bone china sky into billions of bits. Crying, screaming after the loss, unsalted tears pouring as she runs from room to room, bolting, tearing through walls, exploding doorways, lost love looking.
She passes overhead, dark and beautiful, thundering past me, leaving the droplets of her pain behind.
