Paper-Thin Thunder

Paper-Thin Thunder

The storm arrives

not with fists,

but with envelopes—

thin, trembling, addressed

to every quiet room inside me.

Clouds crease like paper cranes,

folding themselves into warnings;

I hold my breath

the way a spine holds a library,

afraid of the one book that slips.

Your name is lightning—

bright, brittle, immediate—

and all my courage is a window

taped in X’s, humming.

I pretend it’s music.

I have learned

How thunder can whisper

and still bruise the air;

How a heart can pass for porcelain

until it rings.

I want to be the oak,

root-drunk, rain-laughing—

But tonight I’m the leaflet

on a wet windshield,

clinging, unread.

Between strike and echo

There’s a mercy of seconds

where even fear is holy.

In that small interval

I iron the sky smooth

and swear—quietly—

to thicken my weather,

to turn this crumpled forecast

into something that doesn’t tear

when held.