the storm

the storm ripens everything
in a hot, sweet darkness.
we lie together like bursting berries
on white sheets.
the window is open,
& the world gusts inside.

this familiar scene,
locked in one blink.
it’s in our bones.
they vibrate under the taut typanum
of our skins.
the sound carries
to the ocean,
where the waves gulp it down
to become one with the singing echoes
of ten thousand other bones -

then: severe lightning,
singeing the eyeballs,
and its disciple, thunder,
grovelling after.

our apologies; unnecessary, yet hasty.
the words are structures which house
the sounds our mouths make.
they are empty but for
a whistling echo.

outside: the rain.
it makes no sound
until coming into contact
with something else.

then: fear -
what if i am your shadow
& you, mine?
what if we only exist
as long as the storm lasts?