Thunder You Don't Hear

You turn the news down,

pour the wine, say,

"the world still turns,

it's fine." I watch the skyline flicker red,

you say it's just the sunset spread.

The glass reflects a different sky,

one you refuse to recognize.

You smile, "we're safe,

just stay inside," but I can hear the thunder hide.

Your calm wraps 'round me like a sheet,

too warm to move,

too soft to breathe.

You see a still and golden night,

I see the air begin to break.

Your voice is soft,

the city quiet

I taste the fear the silence makes.

You laugh and change the channel fast,

say, "all bad things,

they never last."

The window hums, the walls grow thin,

I feel the world beneath my skin.

You hold my hand to prove it's fine,

but I can hear the distant chime the kind of sound you

learn to know

before the wind decides to show.

Your faith in calm is sharp and sweet,

a song that ends before the beat.

You call it peace,

I call it waiting,

a gentle lie, a quiet ache.

You see the light,

I see it fading

the sky forgets the shape it takes.

Maybe you need the quiet lie,

maybe I need the noise to live.

You close the blinds,

I face the sky,

there's nothing left for night to give.

The thunder waits beyond our words,

but you just hum and feed the birds.

You fall asleep, the rain starts turning,

the dark breathes slow against the pane.

Your dream is warm,

the world is burning

and I can't tell which feels the same. (hummmm)

You say it's peace.

I call it warning.