Storms

I moved to a desert in the middle of a city,
arid climate of my apartment
being a shelter against tear drops.

For when I dream of clouds
they always ended up storms
anytime I gazed into eyes
where I thought love would shine,
inside I remembered drowning from the deluge of excuses and lies.

Living under the ceiling parasol’s shade
keeps me from cringing during the grays skies of encounters,
yet my heart still goes outside even at the risk of eye water stains.