Storms rumble the low foothills of the Sierras,
Percussion geology, mixed with a light mist.
Lightning flashes, its brilliance; nearly a description of you yet it fades too fast,
sprung up from the ground by nature's chaotic algorithms;
The Mother's anger or orgasm, who can tell,
Water drowns the world the same despite the source of the well.
The little glass pipe edges into my periphery as a new round of sound checks from the clouds lay themselves across the hillside.
A lick of smoke sticks to my cheek after the hit; a wind caught lamprey of exhalation, nowhere to go until it changes.
Lightning forks once more, brash and angry but so silent, quiet fire, the thunder far behind it.
I miss You...
Cumulus mother hens tut their way above me, drawing down a thin drizzle of comfort and ozone-scented warmth, the term "wet blanket" exults under new meaning, and I laugh.
Sirens slip between my thoughts, little wailing knives that cut the scene like angry directors, or killers.
I steal my words back.
The blanket sits over me, not heavy or oppressive, not commensurate... cleansing?
I've no idea what Monday holds, I know it’s not Lovecraftian, no Cthulu tentacles await outside my little cave, in the rain.
But I think of you, of the panacea of your smile,
the desire of your fingertips, of mine for them,
of the fire of your touch and how those little eyes heat to furnace points
when I spend time between your thighs.
How I wish you were here right now and,
how I wish you were mine.
The thunder and lightning have met and they bellow greetings above me, in their fashion.
I hear the thunder and my heart screams to match it, to be elemental, or maybe just sound, but I fail, my thunder pales in comparison to the sky’s.
While the lightning tries and tries, but is still silent, barren, it might be as bright, but it could never match you-
-so how could it ever steal your thunder?