"A storm is coming," she says
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Looking into my eyes instead of
Up at the skies where the
Clouds are circumstantial, the sun
Half visible, unsure in its own
Sincerity. A storm is due, I know,
But where it blow from
And when it will come,
I cannot tell, even though her eyes
Dispel doubt and rebuild it anew.
Perhaps I saw her lip quiver
As the nimbus darkens and
Tumbles into a new version of
Itself, that was hidden before.
"A storm is coming" she says to me
And squeezes my hand to let me
Know which side she wants to be on.