You say you're in love with storms, and yet you seek shelter when it sprinkles. You do not dare leave the house without an umbrella, and god forbid you open up the door to hear the thunder roar. I have lighting rods as the colour of my eyes. I am the equivalent to a hurricane. I am not a gentle breeze nor am I soothing. So don't tell me you love storms, when you can't even handle a drop of water.
YOU ARE READING
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PoetryEverything I've ever wrote to you, for you, or about you are all in the lines pages of my note book.
