What he noticed was the small thing:
the only photo of the two of us
gone missing from the place he looked
every morning. It was weeks before
our room, accepting the absence,
took on the chill of emptied space.
He still wants to talk about the weather,
the time it takes for a flash of lightning
to reach the ground and cleave the space
between us. I smile, remembering how
he always goes for atmospherics,
holds his breath till a storm passes.
But why bother with daily forecasts?
We both know it takes no genius to pull
back a curtain and see for ourselves that
gathering clouds don't always nourish rain.
© 2012 Maureen E. Doallas