There is nothing I love more than a mood swing that travels from the coast of Africa and swims across the Atlantic to see me.
Not entirely rage, but a grey widow whose silver veil brings with her emotion and a cool breeze which pushes back palms.
I listen to her wailing, her need to for a name and embrace broken pieces scattered over the sky, and I thank her for dimming the light.
Because I’ve always found the sun to be obnoxious with his pin-sharp rays piercing my forehead and screaming in my eyes.
She calls upon the toads and smears headlights across the pavement; there is beauty in her drenched sorrow.
I even adore the way she makes the Earth smell and, if I could, I would capture the aroma a perfume bottle a give it to my mother.
Some would say it is cynicism that causes me to be attracted to such a thing, and that I have become a mental masochist of sorts.
However, she isn’t winter with dead branches and burning air that causes limbs to turn black, nor is my friend a frying pan to park.
And she isn’t strong or ill enough to flatten houses and break windows, and certainly not weak to the point of non-existence.
She proves that mother nature can be like a lot of us: Tired, glued to the bed and wallowing in our own flash floods and blankets.
Too exhausted to cause harm, but hurt enough to make a point, she revolves around herself and drags along until disintegrating.