Around her I'm someone who says sorry.
Constantly.
An erratic tic,
in words said or unsaid,
in gestures and averted eyes.

As though her ever present thunderstorm is my doing,
as though I'm sitting on her shoulders
dropping rain on her head.

But she didn't put me there.
She didn't bring in the clouds to strap them to my back.
She carries them herself,
inadvertently strangling my breath in the devastation of her north wind.

So why do I wrap myself up in it,
and make it my own?
Trapping myself in the grey fog,
alternately freezing and lashing out.

And now, she is not only a storm,
but a tempest dragging a caged intruder.
Weighted in destruction.
Heavier than before we crossed.

And I am lost,
in "I'm sorry".