Harsh slices of lightening sky; barrage thunder bursts. Spliced lightening. “one one thousand, two one thousand. . . .” Then, body slam of thunder. Center of violence, eight miles away.
Violent storm inside her head matches powerful one outside. Hail ravages window, creating concentric fracture circles in fragile and weakened glass. Her dreams shatter under weight of sorrows.
She lacks friendship pheromone. She has no scent that lingers; so easily forgotten. So few reach out a hand; so few remember.
Her unique is too jarring; her needs too immense. Breath on her cheek, head on her shoulder; she dances away quickly, they dance away far.
Rain rips at leaves, wind shatters branches. Crescendos of raw forces slashes night.
Bright rips in night-fabric, flash image of forlorn silhouette.
She steadies herself, slipping, shifting down cupboard doors.
Kitchen. Should be place of laughter, of warmth, of together, of music, of parties.
Shell of utility, never complete. No beeping microwave. No one cup coffee wonder.
Slip of ironic smile.
Watching thunderstorm out of her kitchen window is yet another metaphor for her life.
© phylor, September, 2015