Thunder Before Rain
It isn’t roses, tame and sweet,
or vanilla pressed to paper skin.
It’s thunder before rain,
salt on the back of your neck,
coffee grounds and old books
when hands reach without asking.
It lingers on collar and wrist,
smoke from a match,
black pepper, clove,
the faint burn of whiskey breath
when laughter breaks too close to your mouth.
You can’t bottle it —
passion smells like skin after running,
like midnight plans and bad decisions,
like a storm that chose you
to strike.
It doesn’t ask permission.
It just walks into a room,
and suddenly,
you’re breathing faster.
©oriole_b
R