The Storm I Was

I think sometimes

that I was a storm too early,

a lightning strike

before he had learned to look up at the sky.

We met,

and I opened my chest

like a window unlatched,

let him see the trembling heart inside.

He spoke of loss,

I spoke of wounds,

and in the fragile silence that followed,

our lips found each other.

It felt like truth—

but maybe truth was more

than he wanted.

Perhaps he longed for a beginning

made of laughter,

small talk,

slow steps into warmth.

And instead he found me:

a fire that asked him to sit close,

a storm that asked him to trust its rain.

I wonder if he left

because I asked too much of him too soon,

or if he left

because he never meant to stay.