She was a storm cloud of his making,
seeded by his doubts,
dropped unceremoniously from his stratosphere,
swollen by his words – fractious, thunderous syllables
preceded by a reflex flashed and landed on her face.
Privy to the forecast,
she stepped away to recover
in frantic, shallow breaths,
the wind that he’d knocked out.
Not their first storm, but one of many,
it would be their last, she resolved,
thoroughly convinced that
no man-made storm produces rainbows.
Fear subsiding,
she backed out of the driveway,
staring at him as he stood there
broken and transparent,
pelted by the downpour.