From my bed, I no longer hear the murmur of ambient music on my sound system slyly lulling me to sleep.
Instead, I hear the wind swishing coarsely through the spaces between buildings with the force of a flash flood through a slot canyon.
Branches on the trees are being battered, rapping against my window & grating like the fingernails of hysterical victims craving a safe place.
Things are airborne, but not my memory of you. My memory of you is like the storm itself, knocking around inside my cerebral cortex — a predator threatening to level my limbic system.
