Petals of spring-
white,
unknowing of the rain to come-
are strewn across the concrete,
much like pearls that have scattered
across thick bedroom carpeting.

I can smell the beginning of madness,
of a downpour,
inching closer to my unguarded skin;
and yet it has already passed,
leaving little in its wake,
as if it could not remember why it wanted to erupt.

The trees are waiting for their cue
to tremble and quake,
to shiver and shake.
Their limbs reach towards the clouds, questioning
“Yes, and?”
They wait to be struck down.

Lightning ripples through the sky,
lost without its partner.
How strange,
how sad it is,
that due to thunder’s absence,
I am no longer afraid.