She’s a storm in a bottle
A wild tornado caged.
She’s a lightening bolt
A strike of fire and rage.
They watch the science in her world from outside of her glass jar. They watch the twirls and blasts but are ready to run far.
She’s a weed that grows twisted on the ground. Up the roots of trees, tangled and earthen bound.
A dandelion that catches the fancy of boys looking for lovely things. A weed seems perfectly lovely to them. But once they know it’s only a weed, they cast it aside for a less common thing.
She’s pin pricks of light that sometime shine. You stay to see the bolt flash just one more time. She’s a rain storm you want to exist in for the perfect moment in time. But at some point… you’ll want to get dry.
He is steady and he is home. He doesn’t want to shake the jar to watch her glow. He doesn’t leave when the storm grows.
He knows that sometimes weeds are flowers and need as much sunlight as rain. He qwells the day so her lights can blaze. He keeps her gates open and doesn’t force her to stay.
He is where my feral heart will always go.
He is calm and he is home.