An Impatient Storm

Andrea Bustillo (she/he/they)

Two strangers stand at a crosswalk,
A fluorescent man is reflected in the concrete,
The earth is waiting;
The humid air is still.

Puddles of rain flash white,
And they cross.
Shadows of long-lost touch,
A shy breeze in the rain,
Brush their shoulders. 

Lightning strikes,
And everything is wrong.
She needs to go back.
She can’t remember his face anymore.
Yet, what can one do
When they’ve already walked past?

Everything is scary,
But she rushes on–
The downpour beats against her shoulders,
And she wills herself home
Where everything is warm and light:
Her memories,
Her bed, 

Him. 

The apartment is cold and dark.
The lights aren’t on, 
But she leaves them that way,
Stunned by the emptiness of the walls and
Photos she so meticulously decorated.
Who are these people?
She didn’t know them anymore,
And they certainly didn’t know her. 

She’d grown deep into the shell
Of a home she’d built.
She almost never left,
Only walking when it rained
So she could return to the cozy loneliness 
Of not knowing where else to go. 

But something stirs in her today,
The swagger of purple and gold 
Against black and gray–
She remembers!

She runs until her chest begs her to stop, 
Sobbing and slapping at ribs.

Again at the crosswalk, 
She finds no one;
Not even the earth is waiting anymore. 

Lightning strikes again.