Storms catch our like-mind in a diametric dialectic—
I’d never think to capsize outside of our umbrella plan.

I follow you when it’s your turn to lead,
and I follow you because you won’t follow me
(no path annuls the past).

When, or where, or how, or why
your fugue, and freeze, and fluster settle in
thus plays our measure to reduction.

I see through your clouded judgment;
I taste your heart suspended in the smog—
yours to contaminate, mine to consume.

Fair-weather fits your form in cloying calamity,
binding and blinding.
I bask in the grandeur of your sight
and blister in the cruelty of your night.

You were always worth the weight.