The Ghosts Are Raining Tonight

The thunder is rolling in and
I am on the floor,
waiting for the black to
explode into something more.

The piano is warm, every key stroke
lights up the room,
outside strikes of light
and his perfume

lingers after his feet.
I live for the carpet that he danced
across,
his silent promise to
haunt me

through the storms
that warned me of him
before I was born.
My birth was a golden eruption
of time

that took heartbeats from my arms
and placed them
in puzzles,

in God’s masterpiece.
His Masterplan.

If I were a man, I would have taken them
back, painting a home
in the deep strikes
outside
of the waves of thunder and
light,

but I am a woman and I am
a deep rolling drum roll
floating above the rumble,
resting my head on the outline of his
chest,

breathing in between a memory
of heart beats,
shoving the rain out of
this room
and back into the slick black piano
keys that wrap his warm
arms around me.

Belonging

I bend easy, like a willow, swaying in
every direction, never favoring
East over West. I am hungry for
all direction, feasting on the luxurious winds
that pick me up and carry me from the storms of
inexperience to the gentle breeze of wisdom.

Though, I snap as sharp as winter pea
skin, frost bitten by the breath of the season
when they try to take me.
They say I belong with them in the East, where
the sun rises just to shine its Gold on me.
They say I belong to the West and
the colours of their underground sunsets.
Some say I belong for them to share,
for them to grant my freedom,
and they do not understand that I belong
only to the wind.