The rain has long ended and yet I can still smell the petrichor at noon, while the whorl of where the light cuts the sky still dangles over my head.
The season may have passed but the freezing thermal winds only became more unbearable, impetuous thinking deflated the devoid of common sense. Desperation made its way to you, indulging on the warmth, neglecting my fragility.
You are a hailstorm, not enough of a threat to be called a snow storm that could destroy homes and take away lives. Yet you added a new dimension to the word "destructive". You lift me up to touch the sky and let me fall to my death.
You are the reason why storms have names, the reason why casualties are higher in the state of defiance.
You're the next disaster waiting to happen.
