If there is peace to be had in this world, it is next to a clear windowpane
as a thunderstorm beats its drums in the distance.
With water slicing through the sky
in a diagonal marching line,
unbeknownst to the rules of physics and even gravity,
you can watch the sky turn from white to blue and every blurry color in between.
Foggy droplets cling to your window-
and if you put your hand up to the cool glass,
it leaves a warm, smoke-ringed handprint, like you can touch the storm after all.
But the only way that you can really join
is if you step into the rain,
and the cool scent of petrichor and greenery
fills your empty heart.
You look heavenward, covered in clouds and light and erroneous sunbeams,
and close your eyes.
Let the water crack across your head,
dripping down into whatever crevices have formed in your
There is something so free
about being mercilessly, hopelessly drenched.
Now run inside, before the lightning snaps you into dust.