You know a storm is brewing
You can feel it in the air.
A subtle shift of atmospheric pressure that stands on end every hair
From forearm to the ticklish spot on the back of your neck...
The one he knows all about,
and you say you wish you'd never told him,
But it's a lie.
You know that even strained laughter (while trying not to let an uncontrollable jerk of the elbow black his eye) will shield you from the tempest raging...
And when the rain stops,
The winds die down,
The thunder refrains from growling its empty threats,
He will still be standing there beside you,
Firmly holding your hand,
Brushing that rebellious strand of hair away from your eye and tucking it behind your ear...
Tiny, enigmatic-yet-coveted, gentle touches
That cause everything else to disappear...

When you see flashes of lightning,
Foreshadowing the next-go-round,
Those simply sensational, all-consuming,
kinesthetic memories...
They will keep you grounded.




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