He woke me in the middle of the night.
Thoughts of catastrophe crashed around
my skull the way winds crashed around the bricks
and shook the windows.
Nothing good happens when you’re woken
at 3am. I flip through hospital calls, family
crises and miserable train journeys
but his smile jolted electric through my veins.
He took my hand, and window by window
he tried to locate the perfect view.
The wind’s screams turned to opera
and held the house in its embrace.
The flashes of lightning lit up his eyes
in childlike wonder.
When he found his place, I found mine.
We watched the thunderstorms
for a solid half an hour.
The Confessionalist Zine 