Lust and Lightning

The moon hangs above, wreathed by these turbulent clouds like the halo on my angel’s head; equally distant. The lightning lays on both horizons, threatening destruction to anything breaching the borders of this normally arid prison altered by the presence of the drops landing all around. The scent has changed with the rain today into something new and exciting; a parallel of the aroma of her body, changing with the tang of arousal and heat assaulting my senses with her desire.

The lightning becomes more prevalent, more powerful, now; bringing to mind electrified nights with my lover above me, sweat falling from her body onto my chest echoing the staccato of droplets on the roof above. The thunder crashes, closer now, almost overhead. In the flashes playing across my vision I see her face hanging above me, lacking iris, open mouthed and begging for release; the thunder becomes her cries and I’m drawn away from this pen and paper by my urgent memories and pressing imagination; my need to feel this tempest on my skin.

The latent power from the blasts of natures awesome temper tearing the ground asunder, destroying the landscape and reforming it around me, changes the very air I breathe. The atmosphere caressing my skin with the promise of death and sweet relief with one misstep; the hairs down the nape of my neck standing on end with the urgency of this charged moment; they warn me of the awkward and tentative peace I am taking for granted as another section of earth is charred and scored; tossed skyward in lustful rage.

Hands raised to the heavens in this last prayerful offering to the physical union we shared that so rivaled the fury of Nature as to prompt her attack, I drop to my knees in the mud waiting for the final deadly kiss to send me home. It doesn’t come. I am denied the succulent absolution of closure and left to wait in awe of the experience as the rain slows and finally dissipates, taking my light and noise with it, on to other more deserving souls.

Tonight I, this pen, and this ruined paper are left to bear witness; tell this tale of lust and lightning. Returning hesitantly, step by step, to the room and bed that housed these furies in evenings past, I collapse, dirty and wet, back onto these delicate sheets with disregard. If only she were here. Then, we would rival this storm.