I'm sorry for being a natural disaster.

I'm sorry the way my mood changes turns you into a quiet rumble of thunder, always dragging behind the lightning bolt until the full force of nature's fury is pounding down on your head.

I'm sorry for skidding into your world like a golden-tinged summer daydream and leaving it like a levee breaking.

I'm sorry for writing about you so much that your name is carved into my fingertips like water shapes a rock formation -- my journal probably wouldn't weigh so much if all my baggage wasn't crammed inside it.

I'm sorry that I can only write in figurative language lately but the concise truth is like walking barefoot on ice and after a while it's so cold it burns:

I never really loved you.

But admitting it means hailstones of lies battering my already-crumbling storm shelter, all our sunny afternoons grayed out by cloud cover.

And I'm sorry beyond all the weather metaphors in the world, but I can't bear that.