SIGWA

You won’t feel it coming.
Not until the pressure drops.
A scream.
A kiss.
A name said like it’s the last time.

That’s when it begins—the storm.
It hums beneath the skin. Cracks the air.
Then you see them—threads hanging like lightning,
silver when it's soft, red when it's too late.

They bind.
They bruise.
They twist around your throat when you love too much.
They snap like tendons when you lie too well.

I didn’t ask to see them.
But storms don’t ask for permission.

And the first thread I ever saw?
Was the one that never wrapped around me.
His.