Dusk was darker today
with an eerie coldness
and no wind. I worked my way
through it into twilight,
which was less bright
than it used to be, the moon
waxing gibbous behind shrouds
of clouds so thick the stars disappeared. The rain didn’t come,
not really. A few drops splattered
like tears on my windshield,
not even enough water
to blur the taillights in front of me.
No thunder, no lightning,
just this absurdly low
barometric pressure
awakening old wounds
into a familiar ache, lonely
desolation and grief like a flag
hanging limply from a pole,
unbothered by the stagnant air
beneath it, grey-bottomed clouds
gathering furiously, asserting their rage
with empty promises of rain
in a sky filled with elephants
refusing to dance.
About the Creator
Harper Lewis
I'm a weirdo nerd who’s extremely subversive. I like rocks, incense, and all kinds of witchy stuff. Intrusive rhyme bothers me.
I’m known as Dena Brown to the revenuers and pollsters.
MA English literature, College of Charleston
Keep reading
More stories from Harper Lewis and writers in Poets and other communities.
Comments (1)
Your words capture the quiet, heavy ache of a lonely evening so vividly—it feels like I’m moving through that still, restless air alongside you. Beautifully haunting imagery.