Storm Warning.

Why do I still expect

to see your name

light up my phone

every time it buzzes

during a storm?

You're six feet under,

and I'm five foot eight above it,

but some habits don't bury easy.

I joked that you weren’t

the only ass I was lighting a fire under

as I rolled you into the flame,

steel door groaning shut,

as Lucy climbed into the sky

with her diamonds,

just like you asked.

But when that little screen glows,

and thunder shakes the glass,

the synapses still snap,

my brain waiting

for your voice

to crackle through the static.

And don’t worry—

if the sirens go off,

I'll be about eight feet down—

or however deep this staircase runs—

because I remember:

You lived through one tornado,

and spent every storm after

trying to make sure

we did too.