I am a Juliet belonging to the 9 o’clock rain storm,

lured to the balcony

to take in the turmoil’s splendid face.

I lock eyes with the lightning,

and its fierce glare sends trills down my arms—

it’s the spider kiss touch,

the specter’s avenge against the living,

the last greedy grasp at the light of day.

The storm thrashes through my fingers,

its footsteps quickening, drawn to dance

if only to prove it’s alive.

There is nothing else to be done but

grin, and

watch as the sky collapses in on itself, trailing its tears down my arm

as our waltz drowns in thunder.