You swing by unannounced, holding a bouquet
of barometric pressure.
You’re an oasis of calm when you’re not a micro-burst, blamed for air disasters
during flights of fancy.
You’re a force of nature, messing up my lipstick
with monsoon kisses.
You say, “I’ve wanted to do that since Hurricane Andrew.”
It ends there.
Daylight dissolves my castle in the air. Today the forecast calls
for acid tears, at times torrential, and a mind in fog.
But the illness of consciousness
is an a-ha moment.
After years of dead air
and cumulus dreaming, I’m just an afterthought--- an aberrant blip,
then back to normal.
But you, lovely man with surfer hair
and island eyes, you remain a Category 5, a meteorological head honcho, bringing gusts of emotion,
Night again. Off to another place. Embedded in the distance, the Seychelles, and you--- a pinprick of disastrous potential, increasing strength in the distance
before veering course.