From the other side of your safe little windows
You admire me.
You write odes to me.
Romanticize me.
Through your dainty little panes
You frame me–
Like a pretty picture.
Give me so many names. Bottle me as a fragrance.
And talk of me fondly after I am gone.

But once in a while
The window bolt flies open.
Or perchance you happen to be outside.
Then you curse me.
And fear me.
You run
From my embrace.
You pray to the gods that I leave.

No longer the pretty little picture
Through your pretty little panes.
No poetry.
No song.
Just fear.
Only fear.
And loathe
For the terrible storm.

But alas!
It was only my kiss
At your window.
Only my touch
At your door.
I can’t bottle myself
As a fragrance.
I can’t frame myself
As a picture.


My terrible true form–

March, 2019