Forecast of a Fickle Heart

In the grand, empty concert hall of my own shifting soul, 

My heart, a meteorologist, seeks to make itself whole. 

It charts the barometric pressure of each passing day, 

Predicting inner climates, come what may. 

For my moods, like restless clouds, across my spirit sweep, 

A broadcast of emotions, secrets I can't keep.

Today, a high-pressure system, bright and clear and wide, 

A golden, warming sunlight, where all my worries hide. 

The air is crisp with laughter, a gentle, hopeful breeze, 

When your attention, like a dawn, puts my anxious heart at ease. 

The sky within me, boundless, an azure, cloudless dome, 

Reflecting back the feeling that I've finally found my home. 

A perfect, balmy morning, where every thought takes flight, 

Bathing in the certainty of your steady, loving light.

But then, a sudden shift, a darkening on the screen, 

Cumulus of quiet, where your presence grows unseen. 

The pressure drops abruptly, a chill begins to creep, 

As silence, like a thunderhead, awakens from its sleep. 

Isolated showers of doubt begin to softly fall, 

A mist of apprehension, answering my silent call. 

The wind picks up, a whisper, "Are you still truly there?" 

And lightning flashes, questions, hanging in the heavy air.

As twilight deepens, often, a thick, persistent fog descends, 

Obscuring every pathway, where clarity transcends. 

Low visibility of understanding, a dense, emotional haze, 

When your replies are distant, through a labyrinth of days. 

The world within me blurs, the edges soft and grey, 

Lost in the swirling currents, of what you didn't say. 

A chilling dampness settles, a quiet, deep despair, 

And I grope for solid ground, but find only empty air.

And you, my dearest tempest, my ever-changing clime, 

Are the unpredictable season, defying space and time. 

One moment, summer's bounty, a warmth I long to hold, 

The next, a winter's harshness, leaving my spirit cold. 

I build my fragile shelters, prepare for every gust, 

But your emotional barometer, I can never truly trust. 

You are the sudden frost, the unexpected, scorching heat, 

The deluge and the drought, making my inner world complete.

The echoes of past forecasts, the ones that went awry, 

Remind me of the moments, beneath a weeping sky. 

My heart, a fragile compass, spins wildly in the gale, 

As I try to chart a course, on this unpredictable trail. 

In the grand, empty concert hall, where my own weather plays, 

I yearn for stable sunshine, through all these shifting days. 

The power of this yearning, a constant, aching plea, 

To understand the climate, of your heart's mystery.

- Khushi Kaul