The Silent Storm

I check the weather app— cloudy. 

I stuff my bag with supplies in preparation:

two jackets, an umbrella, and a spare, just in case. 

I brace for a deluge, imagining the streets flooded. 

Each puddle, a metaphor for my fears. 

Clouds loom like ominous thoughts, swirling. 

The wind whispers warnings that never arrive. 

And I huddle, half-drenched in the water of my 

worries, waiting for a storm that won't even break. 

In the corner of my mind shadows dance, 

while the sun peeks out— laughter in its rays.