The monsoon and the shudder

When your heart is a desert the smallest of loves can feel
like a monsoon. You were not the avalanche or the earthquake
you were not the biggest of loves
but you were the last shudder.

You caused the avalanche to fall
and I was buried for a while. I was the weight on top and
the fear underneath at the same time
(can you imagine?)
and you – you were
the monsoon and the shudder.

Every day I swear I am a calm tropical island and I will be
no extremes today. Sometimes I am wrong; sometimes
the snow sinks into my bones despite the
pills that I take, and I quiver
(because these cold bones want you back)
(your smile, your hands).
So I think about the dry desert.
I think about anything that is not
the monsoon and the shudder.

If I am using too many nature analogies it is only
because I don’t want
to talk in specifics about you
(I am trying to think about the desert, after all)
because I don’t want you to know
that I can still feel you in my daily weather forecast
because I insist
I am an island, now
because I wouldn’t dare
to become a flood around you

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