She learned to love the phenomenon they all fear.
Don't tame feral waves, surf on the cold platforms.
Something about water flowing mesmerizing her.
The rain on her hands was nonoceanic saltwater.
Feeding the hurricane flourishing in the dull attic.
A lullaby, when drought hit the remaining floors.
It tastes like an injury, doesn't race on thick glass.
She loves counting raindrops, the sound of storms.
Her body vibrates the hurricane inside butsts forth.
Water has memory, don't ever make her resent you.
The glass will break and the waves will drown it all.
It communicates with lights and sounds, count down.
A breath of cold wind pricking the hairs on her neck.
Brighter and louder, she's reached it, her electric rage.

© yudia