The Perfect Storm

Eyes stinging. The storm of snot and tears and vertigo
coming like a monsoon with so little warning, casting you
to the woods, to the bedroom, to draw the shades, to record
love letters to meltdowns that send your voice like a siren

to the friends you know won’t flee from this kind of weather
but walk out to meet it, drenching sundresses and sexy heels.
And that is the only description — always water, whether
the sea, now calm now raging, or the river rapids or the

hot shower that soothes you finally along with the shore
of love you’re reminded is bigger, vaster than any violent
season or the tectonic plates that crash and shift, altering
your inner landscape, forging mountains and laying you bare

in a blinding swirl of stardust that eventually clears,
leaving you cleansed and exposed when it settles, delivered
into something strong and fragile, the knowledge of which
surprises you every time as if for the first time:
the utter perfection of the human heart.

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