We haven’t gotten one decent thunderstorm this summer. Just loud drum storms, nothing to shake the core of you, jolt you from sleep. I’m sitting on the balcony as the light fades or the clouds thicken or the air is holding on to much too much. Just let it go, I say, just do it. Open your mouth and let it out.
But all I hear are the crickets chirping too early, a motorcycle engine zooming through a side-street and the sound through the open windows of my love downstairs clinking dishes. A glass of wine almost gone, the sudden wail of a cicada. Let it pour, I pray, Let it pour tonight and I’ll run beneath you, my skin a light, and listen as no one does as a friend does, open ears to your open mouth. Wail. I want nothing more than hear your release.
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