Where does thunder go when it dies?

Hello thunderstorm.

Your rumbling lullaby rocks me to sleep as my eyelashes flutter with slumbering thoughts and the sound of your voice. The lightning flashes across the sky and shines briefly on my forehead like a parent who cracks the door to check on me and lets in a sliver of the hallway light to illuminate my sleepy head.

Hello thunderstorm.

My disgruntled attitude is echoed in the loudness of your own complaining and I respect you for the strength you have to voice your own opinions. Lightning crashes across the sky like I do when I walk into a room wearing confidence higher than my heels. You ignore subtlety and I like that most of all.

Hello thunderstorm.

You wear all black because you’re a Francophile and think black is chic. When you’re feeling incredibly flashy, you accent with streaks of white lightning and remind everyone that your favorite designer is Chanel.

Hello thunderstorm. Please don’t go.

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