Dead. Used to be alive. Really loved birds. Led many through the waters. Married late, never regretted. Two daughters, sweet as peaches. Twelve surgeries, five books, prize winning jalapeños. Great cheesecake. Not bad soup. Just missed walking in 50 states—damn you, Utah! Turned abandoned houses into art.

Every time we wanted to go out it was raining. Or snowing. Or hailing. Or too damn hot. Every time you wanted to stay in but you didn’t want to do anything but read your book in one chair while I read my book in another chair on the other side of the room. Nothing else. No kissing. No foreplay. No after party. No nothing. I wanted to tell you I was hot. I was really hot. It was raining inside my loins, and my loins were not the stormiest part of me. I wanted to tell you the wind that was raging outside was nothing like the wind inside of me. I wanted to show you how global warming had melted me so far I was puddling in my self. I wanted to hear if there was any water left in you, any fire, any earth, anything at all but the air in your eyes. I wanted to teach you a weather lesson. All I wanted was to be the storm.