There is nothing special about me.
I am not a cup of tea or coffee
every Sunday morning.
I am not the same as your thoughts
when it’s Friday while you’re on your way home.
I am a Monday morning,
my skin cracks every night
while everybody else is asleep or having sex.
I am an awkward sadness
and a desperate apology letter.
Loving me will always be a disaster,
my skin is muffled by dark clouds and loud a thunder.
There is nothing special about falling in love
with a storm who can easily destroy everything,