The exterior is thick with humidity,
damp with rain,
and I’ll never experience fever like this again.

My body is being taken
(through the wind of a thousand hurricanes)
to a building with no climate;
I will be my own meteorologist,
forecasting eroded rocks and failures,
and seldom I might discover a window to peer out of.

Squinting,
I could catch the stories –
those of capability, disability, and susceptibility –
my willowed reflection screams.

And, though I will always have my wrinkled palms,
they will never hold the weather.