A Piece of Poetry: Flash Flood

tell me again about how

you love thunderstorms

because they remind you

of me.

the uncertainty

before each clap-

the intensity of the rain-

the flooding

that tugs at your toes

and begs them to shed

their shells and dance,

and washes your flip flops

down the street.

it’s only two blocks

from your street,

to mine.

whisper to me

about the cherry popsicle

I can taste

hiding in your teeth.

summer

is meant to last forever.

tell me this

as the snow falls

outside your bedroom window,

and we sit beneath

the glow and the dark stars,

pretending to have

answers

to questions we have yet

to discover.

then again, nothing is certain.

peel me back like the oranges

you carry in your purse.

let me bite into them,

canines ripping pale sinew,

so I can suck the juice

through pursed lips,

disregarding

the carcass.

what comes from nature

will one day

return.

the storm hammers on,

rain beats the roof,

a drum solo

from the song I discovered

when I was twelve

but listen to

whenever the dysfunction

of my mind

drowns your voice.

drowning.

you tell me I am beautiful

but the crickets that chirp

me to sleep every night

have gone silent.

too much wind, too much rain.

I beg my body to suffocate

like theirs did.

each night I beg the universe,

but each morning,

my eyes open.

my irises have the audacity

to sparkle.

my eyelashes are thick with moondust

and half-truths.

I put my phone on airplane mode

so I cannot look up the cost

of train tickets,

so I can pretend

I am escaping

from myself.

and still

my eyes

dare to ask

for sunlight.

clouds merge into a single entity.

discover my spine with your fingertips-

I’m trading places

with the lamp

on your bedside table;

it turns off-

and count my vertebrae

with your lips.

“one, two, three…”

your tongue is ink

and my body

is papyrus.

you write a novel on my bare back,

fingers inside my lungs,

teaching me to breathe

quieter.

thunderclap, trees rattle,

rain

dares to dissipate.

you are the fog that haunts

the side of the road

and I am car headlights,

searching through your atmosphere

for some kind of

meaning

to remind you

why I am just a storm

and not a hurricane.

white noise gone

like the freckles on your nose

that come in June

but leave by September.

tell me why you only exist

in the space between

yours

and

mine.

remind me that I am a storm,

lightning striking earth,

but gone,

before the death toll

of my goodwill

can be counted.

I killed the crickets.

who is going to punish me

for my crimes?

as fast as it’s arrival,

watch the darkness dissipate

into a patchwork quilt

of blue and white.

the storm surrenders to the sun.

hands intertwined like

fish hooks,

we open your window.

air floods in.

breathe again.

how should I breathe

when my crickets

cannot?

tie a scarf around my neck

and use it as a noose

to hang the stars that

we cannot see.

winds lay still,

grass flattened,

dirt has morphed into mud.

tell me again,

if you love me

because I remind you

of thunderstorms,

or if they remind you

of me.