My Storm

Feeling even her gaze from across the room morphs my heart into a puddle on a stormy day; what once was still and calm now is pounded by a hundred slamming emotions, all rippling out and spiraling together into a pool of distinguished uncertainty, occasionally brought into light from an overhead source. She smiles; a bolt of electricity descends from the sky, emblazing the valley surrounding the puddle, now basking in a warm aura. I am afraid this is too much for my small puddle, and that it will soon boil over and I will be left to embrace the choice between the ever-changing currents of the rain, beating down and the inferno, both of which I’ve come to love.

Before the storm my meek puddle was frozen over and often chipped externally from gouging sickles of ice thwarted from the swaying branches that taunted my puddle’s existence with their liveliness.

Her hand brushes my neck as thunder quakes the terrain and civilizations tumble as her lips briskly take hold of mine. Somewhere in this already confusing whirlwind I can taste the natural sweetness of honeysuckle rising through the tumultuous evanescence of emotion.

“Marry me,” I say. Let this storm forever wage its war on my soul.

She leaves. Winter once more sets in and my puddle redeems its icy polarization.

“Goodnight sweetheart.”

Darkness closes in, and I shiver, wrapping myself up for the long nights ahead without her.

“Goodnight Mommy.”