Weather Patterns

Darlin’ I’ve done it again,

said the wrong thing — 

though I don’t know what it is that I’ve said.

I should’ve brought flowers,

to deflect your attention, from the 

slow-pressure build up of pain,

that bursts into torrential rain.

Your feelings inside, 

like a summer tornado,

they gather momentum unseen.

When the heat of your passion

meets my manner of cool,

then baby, we’re in for a ride — 

and there’s no place I know where to hide.

Babe, I should’ve learned better by now,

not to tease, when the turbulence trembles 

your lips and your brow.

I should have held my peace; 

held you, 

till the raging had ceased.

Then the air would be calm,

the sky filled with light,

and your laugh would infuse me with joy.

But instead, I stand 

paralysed 

and wait for the storm to pass — 

hoping this time will be the last.

Babe, this cycle we’re caught in is cruel — 

weather patterns that happen,

no matter what I do.

I so want a new start,

a world without pain,

your eyes clear of darkness and ghosts.

But instead, I stand 

gouging my hands

and wait for the storm to pass —

feeling that freeze in my heart,

thinking this time just may be my last.