Making love in the storm.
Almost as beautiful as making love on vacation, finding those deep, dark, forbidden locations. Socks and grins and rhythms washed out to sea and pulled back again. Like my heart, ripped apart by the awe of you.
And today in the hot, humid, Alabama heat, thunder crashing down around us, lightning demanding glimpses of unknown worlds. And we find ourselves fevered, pale, smooth. Silken. Amazed at how we fit and how we don't, after so many years. Amazed at the new discoveries.
And afterward, lying in your arms, staring at the kudzu busting through the window and raping the ceiling, one tendril...thumping, thumping...
And finding constellations with the fly spots on flaky, falling white...gliding through the air...the spark in your eyes as we weave new tales and relive old stories.
I don't think we could ever get bored of this.
But then why would we want to?
You are the painting I'll spend a lifetime trying to capture.
And I am the song you want to know how to sing.
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