Will It Thunder

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I shovel back through my memories, asking questions and knowing I will never get answers. Though, it is answers that I seek. Answers that haunt, and will continue to like long decayed feelings and actions and bodies. People and personalities. Like sites of murder and of love. I gaze at the window, curtain spread. Or rather, through the window. Gaging the degree. Of the weather and of how deep I dare delve. It’s cold outside. As cold as I am in. I sit and I wonder, “Will it thunder?”