she steps outside for a moment

and feels

in her blood

the passion of the storm

unrequited love, never quenched.

it rumbles its vows

and shrieks of its intense devotion

screams to the night

that

its longing is for one

it can never have

and as the girl stands outside

and let the wind destroy her

straight hair

she wonders

who the storm’s passion is for,

who, who is the one

it desires

but cannot have?

she closes her eyes

and listens, just listens

to wind and rain and thunder

and does not mind that she is

now thoroughly soaked

all that matters now

is listening.

she listens to the rain’s plaintive tears,

sobs that pull her heart apart

with their intensity

she listens to the thunder

and its angry,

passionate rumbles

she listens to the wind,

most intriguing of all

because,

although it has little sound

she can feel its heartbeat

the flutterflutter of a gentle broken heart

and she cries.

she kneels, right there on the dirt

and sobs for what will never be

for all the love in the world

that will never be used up

for a love that is greater than man

could ever know,

but a love that will forever

be stuck at a wishful someday.

and as the tears of the sky

wash the tears from her face,

she breathes,

and the wind breathes with her,

the exhale of one

who is giving up hope.

and she, too,

exhales.

exhaling all her small problems

in the face of the storm.

her love is small and petty and weak

compared to this deep longing

of a thousand years.