tell me again about how
you love thunderstorms
because they remind you
of me.
the uncertainty
before each clap-
the intensity of the rain-
the flooding
that tugs at your toes
and begs them to shed
their shells and dance,
and washes your flip flops
down the street.
it’s only two blocks
from your street,
to mine.
whisper to me
about the cherry popsicle
I can taste
hiding in your teeth.
summer
is meant to last forever.
tell me this
as the snow falls
outside your bedroom window,
and we sit beneath
the glow and the dark stars,
pretending to have
answers
to questions we have yet
to discover.
then again, nothing is certain.
peel me back like the oranges
you carry in your purse.
let me bite into them,
canines ripping pale sinew,
so I can suck the juice
through pursed lips,
disregarding
the carcass.
what comes from nature
will one day
return.
the storm hammers on,
rain beats the roof,
a drum solo
from the song I discovered
when I was twelve
but listen to
whenever the dysfunction
of my mind
drowns your voice.
drowning.
you tell me I am beautiful
but the crickets that chirp
me to sleep every night
have gone silent.
too much wind, too much rain.
I beg my body to suffocate
like theirs did.
each night I beg the universe,
but each morning,
my eyes open.
my irises have the audacity
to sparkle.
my eyelashes are thick with moondust
and half-truths.
I put my phone on airplane mode
so I cannot look up the cost
of train tickets,
so I can pretend
I am escaping
from myself.
and still
my eyes
dare to ask
for sunlight.
clouds merge into a single entity.
discover my spine with your fingertips-
I’m trading places
with the lamp
on your bedside table;
it turns off-
and count my vertebrae
with your lips.
“one, two, three…”
your tongue is ink
and my body
is papyrus.
you write a novel on my bare back,
fingers inside my lungs,
teaching me to breathe
quieter.
thunderclap, trees rattle,
rain
dares to dissipate.
you are the fog that haunts
the side of the road
and I am car headlights,
searching through your atmosphere
for some kind of
meaning
to remind you
why I am just a storm
and not a hurricane.
white noise gone
like the freckles on your nose
that come in June
but leave by September.
tell me why you only exist
in the space between
yours
and
mine.
remind me that I am a storm,
lightning striking earth,
but gone,
before the death toll
of my goodwill
can be counted.
I killed the crickets.
who is going to punish me
for my crimes?
as fast as it’s arrival,
watch the darkness dissipate
into a patchwork quilt
of blue and white.
the storm surrenders to the sun.
hands intertwined like
fish hooks,
we open your window.
air floods in.
breathe again.
how should I breathe
when my crickets
cannot?
tie a scarf around my neck
and use it as a noose
to hang the stars that
we cannot see.
winds lay still,
grass flattened,
dirt has morphed into mud.
tell me again,
if you love me
because I remind you
of thunderstorms,
or if they remind you
of me.