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Poem
She once said
on a stormy night
before the first drop of rain graced tongues:
"Passion is overrated.  It's out of style"
The crack of clouds blew grey into her face at that moment.
Umbrellas turned their skin inside out
The surf tasted it's own salt and spat it out in disgust
The black beyond broke rain capsules and sang in thunderous laughter.
Passion. 
Lost?
Misplaced?
Nonessential??
We caught her up in our raincoats and hurried her into the nearest cafe.
Three hot coffees and her chattering lips.
Steam in swirly rings 'round her fingers as she shook.
As she cried.
Passion swarmed out of her words and caught the cafe on fire
It burned while we sat there
Peeling paint and freezing fingers
Raining sky in midnight's palm
We listened as she brought up memories
All ignited, having slept long past deadlines of ardor.
We cried with her in conundrum dreams
and kept the burnt out structure erect by our finger tips to scaffold.
A woman grieving should not be disturbed.
Suddenly, her words made sense.
The sky cleared
Her eyes swallowed their blue and returned the ocean to it's salt
We held hands, stretched across a cherry red booth reflecting every broken capillary in her gaze.
Sisters united in empathy's grasp
a circle of an undivided enclave
We stepped over the ashes of her memories
and walked her home despite her obstinate refusal for one of us to stay over.
Count down to 3am
and the petunias lining her front walk
kissed her ankles with the thanks of rain
She smiled and passionately picked the velvet purple 
and placed it in our palms.
We saw the full spectrum of rainbows and heartaches
and growling thunder on the verge of lost adherence to love
all on her face in one evening
That night, she went home alone, to sleep on her side of the bed
with the shivering almost subsiding into the faintest scent of brewing hope.
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