Tonight feels off. Like I do not exist. Like the lightning in the clouds could come down and strike my heart and make it feel less apart and more whole.
     The lightning bugs are so thick in my backyard that I can’t step
     outside with having to brush them off my arms. The grass glows
     everywhere and the owl sitting in its usual branch shades its
     black eyes against the green flashes.
My street gets deadly quiet at about this time of night. The street lamp hums a little and the crickets whir until the first rumble of thunder sweeps through, but then all is nothing. It stills with its grey cat slinking into the grey pavement and disappearing, looking everywhere with its yellow eyes, all sunk in their sockets.
     When the wind comes howling up the street I swear it’s crying,
     not just whimpering. It’s telling the trees how much it aches.
     How much it wishes the world would stop pushing it into the
     valleys and the canyons where it cannot fit easily.
A storm doesn’t prefer to ravage branches with its gentle fingers. It doesn’t prefer to shake my shoulders until I can’t help but cry. It prefers nothing.
     Would my house seem less hollow if I were more full? Would
     my bed seem more inviting if I knew what dreams would greet
     me?