We took the trail past the orchard,
past brittle bones clawing
where apples once fell heavy
and foxglove waited under musky husk.
The sky was full of something half-divine—
a thunderhead that knew us by our names.
You said, “The storm remembers. It’s mine.”
I laughed, but every echo stoked the flames.
The woods held fast their breath, and in between
the lightning’s teeth we saw ourselves anew—
not lovers, not the myths we once had been—
beasts who’d shared the long, unsheltered view.
I thought you’d hold my hand. You lit a smoke.
The thunder preached its sermon through the trees.
The air smelled like a prayer, or maybe something broke
a silence, bruised by lack, by disease.
The wind unbuttoned all the seams
of your voice, hoarse with hunger—
We kissed like thieves, as if the sky could keep
a secret sworn in mud and silhouettes.
So here’s the tale I sometimes whisper:
Two strangers made of marrow, spit, and storm
once found a night too painful for pain
so they let their shadows feast upon their form.
–
Trevor Patricia Watkin is a civil litigation paralegal and erstwhile musician based in Riverside County. Favorite writers include Robin Roberston, Anne Sexton, and Joan Didion. This is his first published writing of any genre, but hopefully not the last.