a sentimental lover bearing down
when it’s too hot for that.
No relief will find me
in the swamp of his embrace.
I pray for the storm to come,
to soak up
loaded with mistakes.
I run in circles, whirling my arms
like an airplane waiting to land,
dropping incendiary sweat
as I try to stir the air,
a rich broth, but I’ve no appetite, only
for the storm.
He could come in the night–
sudden and deliberate, cool and gone–
to let me dream calmly, finally,
in the rumbling thunder after,
I would lie back on the sand, more than willing–
unbelted, unbuttoned, burned, untied–
waving to ourselves in vain.
I watch his blue fingers stroking the horizon,
ready for whatever he brings.
Pray for the storm...