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.
