I have a history with clouds and rain, a common view with ashen skies who dress the ground in costume shadows to keep secrets of the greener grass, a handshake in the overcast above with dusky wishes, where barometric pressure tends to make a task of breathing and uneasy winds run overwrought. I’ve got rapport with darker days that close the flower blooms so all I smell is petrichor.

It’s in the nod of thunderclaps too loud to house a thought and in lubricious winks as lightning strikes make fractured anesthetic skies where grounds are tendered for my lack of sleep. It’s whispers under breaths that tease at branches of the weaker trees whose company I keep for bringing root to why I choose the cold. It isn’t with a silver lining I converse but with the dimmer promises it reins.

I have a history with clouds and rain as seasoned as the seas and mountain peaks concealed beneath them. Perhaps that’s why sometimes when sunrise burns away the weather I still look for shadows on the ground where raindrops left in yesterdays tell stories of the storms they’ll bring tomorrow.

#Paris #France

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