storm

the wind knocks like it hates me-
persistent, bitter,
pulling at the seams of the house
and the thoughts i’ve tried to bury.

rain taps the windows,
too gentle for the anger in the sky,
but steady,
like it is waiting for me to come undone.

shadows stretch longer
with each crack of thunder,
and for a while,
i mistake the shaking for my own.

but somewhere near dawn,
the storm begins to breathe softer-
as if it’s tired too,
and the quiet that follows
feels like an apology.