I barely hear the thunder except inside my head, the wind
whipping up otherwise limp trees into a passion that shakes me, head to toes,
drawing me out, making me respond, the cool chill of the heavy rain doing
nothing to relieve the heat I feel inside, the beat to beat the pain (which is
not really pain) out of me and to watch the residue washed from my fingers, as
I imagine you licked it off me, off my fingers and more.
I do not hear the thunder, yet feel its vibration, rocking
me to blissful slumber later when the storm subsides and I can breath deeply,
pretending you were really here, really doing for me what I am forced to do for
myself, the now-stiff trees bending like slaves before you, to kiss your lips,
your tits you toes, to serve you in all ways possible when in reality not at
all possible.
I don’t hear the thunder and groans for real, just feel as
if I caused them, where in the dark, in the storm, alone, without.
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