Summer Storm
The skies belch their hydrous acid– thundering across the sky their long list of abdominal complaints– lightning bolts crackling like greasy reflux. Clouds slather the skies in iridescent blacks. Fifteen seconds of fine spray, followed swiftly by the downpour. We wade through the gutters.
As hurriedly as the clouds moved in, they move off, to soak some other Sunday afternoon suckers. The humidity has lifted now, the grounds smell sweeter than before.
I suddenly doubt that you love me.
by 
by
Our sphere