There
is fire in my bones and lightning
in
your lungs. When we kiss it’s like
a
thunderstorm. Two tectonic plates
crash
against each other and
somewhere
in the world starts
quaking.
Seismic waves are quicker
than
calling. Continental drift is the
earth’s
defence mechanism for
commitment.
Static electricity, like
miscommunication,
is simply friction
in
motion. I am crushing sandstorms
between
my teeth, breathing in
hurricanes
like oxygen, swallowing
the
volcanic ash of survival; to think
we
are all made of liquid love and
some
will never feel the force of a
tsunami.
Sometimes I am stuck
in
the eye of a tornado, others I am
spinning
in it. Either way, we are a
whirlwind
of skin and bone; flesh and
blood;
bruises and scars. Laying in
the
fresh rubble of our own creative
destruction,
I realise, our love is an
oxymoron;
a natural disaster; a
phenomenon
scientists could only
dream
of understanding.
