12.15.19
You have felt storms that captivated you.
You were in awe at their prominence; withholding the strength to move the ground beneath you, yet still kept you standing on your own two feet.
I was water beneath your feet, able to slip through your toes, but also enough to hold you and submerge you into my icy retreats. I was the ravenous, roaring fire that kept you warm when the rest of the world was cold, yet I was also enough to wrap my flames around any trace of you.
I was the pulsing wind that kept you on your feet, but also light enough to slip away.
You could only name all your storms after me; every war inside your head, and constellations after me. You were so in awe, my name was the only thing that had resonated with the wonder instilled within your own inquisitiveness of the things that keep you lying awake at night.
I was very home that you searched for, the feeling of something you can always run back to.
Yet, all at the same time, there was never enough stars in the sky to put together to convince you I was enough.
My presence, once radiating; basking in yours, disappeared with the morning sunrise. And you wondered why it was so cold that morning. There was light, but it was not enough. Light is not always warmth.