Drinking the Storm

You know that I can taste the thunder, pull back my eyes, cross my lips and whimper beneath the slight chill that foams across the air. Because it's coming, the splatter against the pavement, the collapse against the windows and the thrilling hum of energy as I inhale.

          

But still, I don't think you really want to hear about that, my feelings about something other than yourself. I still wish for the cheap sensations of desire to kiss my lips and knock me backwards into the damp grass while gray clouds roll and boil above my heart.

            

I'm just waiting for it all to explode with thunder and let the lightning skim across my flesh, mar my surface and try to prove something. I don't know what though, I don't know what.

            

I need to taste thunder though, chew the lightning and drink the storm, knocking it all back with the third rate sensations of sensuality detained at the border, guarded and shot upon at sight. I need to let it go, fall forward, tumble down the hill, clutching the fragments of what little self-esteem you allowed me to keep.

            

I'll keep rolling until I hit the bottom and find the rain upon me.