i try to keep sparks in my head and poetry on my fingers

walls, white. ceiling, black.
she's laying on the bed, half covered half not.
her glass of water is 2/3 full 1/3 empty.
the earth shakes and suffocates outside the window.
the wind wraps around trees like cars and the rain pours down out of the sky like the heavens were an open wound.
the beads of water rip through the japanese maple tree before hitting the window pane in a splash colored rosy red and if she tilted her head just right it was almost like the sky was bleeding.
headlights from the street below reflect in through the foggy windows and their shadows dance across the wall.
the earth gasps a few sporadic breaths and she thinks that if it were a person she would believe the wind was strong enough for them to come back to life.
she rolls over facing the wall, watching the shadows dance.
he walks in and the house shakes more violently than before.
he feels her cold hand in his and kneels besides the bed.
her eyes are open but she's not listening.
suddenly a blinding light is shining in through the windows and everything is still.
a few lightening bolts strike in the distance and few rumbles of thunder roll across the valley. but it's too far away to tell.
the earth falls into a slumber and it's breathing settles.
the rain gathers itself in the streets and streams down the sidewalks leaving a pink stain behind.
he reluctantly leads her cold hand to the window.
he peers out and she peers out.
much like the sky needs to stitch itself up (action), a heart needs to be broken (reaction).
with the collaborated sound of all things holy and unholy, a mess of bark and wood and branches and leaves crashes through the second floor of the house and stops, landing inches away from where he glances and where she glances.
suddenly the linoleum is turning green and sprouts into growing grass.
a field of wild flowers and tall grass grow out of the floor.
a few short saplings are speckled throughout.
she tentatively touches her fingers to the newly afflicted scrape on the side of his face.
the blood is on her hands.
she places her fingers against the window pane and paints it red in circles.
the warm substance causes the fog to turn to clear on the pane opposite her hand.
she sits on the tree in the room and has a nice view of the ouside.
"no.. not the sycamore." she says to herself. she shakes her head.
it was my favorite, she thinks, looking out into the once lush forrest that has become a ghost town of burning and fallen trees.
the light green grass tickles his bare feet as he leaves her room and the house.
he leaves her with her tree and walks out west, into the carbon monoxide induced beauty, but beauty nontheless, of the setting sun.

so there she sits.
bliss is both inside and outisde of the house.
blood is smeared on both sides of the window.

the storm has beaten the trees and the sunshine and the grass, but they've checked in and out of the hospital and taken up new residence inside the house.

and thus the war is brought home and his shoes are just outside her door.