To feel, we found. To seek, we felt.

When did blades become pens?

-the night breathing on skin as a transitive paper.

When did clouds become canvases?

Even as the evening begged for day to push on -

Where was the iridescent wind then -

In that silent storm.

And what did it whisper, within itself,

And why?

Why did the lightning remember it?

Was it to make the wind jealous?