If She was Rain, He was Thunder

What if rain is not the replenishment of the earth? To quench its thirst? What if it marks all that is falling apart? What if they are the teardrop shaped reminders? What if it is the rain, falling apart? From the clouds. From the world. From her eyes. From their meaning that she tried to hold in for so long with herself.

What if thunder is trying to shush the rain? Roaring loud so she hears him over her pain. Clutching her hand tight so she doesn’t go to pieces. Breaking himself before he sees her breaking in his arms, in front of his eyes. Rupturing himself with a cry so high that he gets to hold her in himself in his cracks at least.

What if lightening is the brightening in their lives? Always a minute too late. Saving them only when they are dead.

But thunder dies eventually, and rain cries even louder. And in the end its only her, falling, harder than ever.