Postcard #26: From Out of the Rain

Sparks… Rain drops. Crackle. Like static on the radio. Thunder whisper-rumbles from every corner. And the wind swoops through every tip of tree, the storm itself a giant black bird passing over.

I am a shiver, feeling the wet down in my bones, and welcome the blanket calm of my bed. Home last night was candle-lit and dark. I am happy-alone-bored-lazy and laid over pillows — un-naked odalisque clothed only in fantasy and drifting over pages, memories, grasping, begging, a slave to my silent and absent muse. I think He left, disgusted at my tears last week, how I too easily gave in over and over again to the desires of others. “Listen to yourself,” He said, but I didn’t listen, and there I was, stuck, struck, dumb and crawling about, writhing slowly out of drowsy-drunk-dull-drums-drumming.

As the lightning strobed, the rain sizzled-drowned, home creaked and groaned, wood giving sway as if remembering what it was like to be the tree again. Roaring rain, I call it, when the storm grows, reaches that high pitch where it seems it will destroy, then it breaks, wind disappears as suddenly swooped, and it’s just the roar. My heart is as heavy as the water. All around is like a lake.

And the muse, He enters me inside, I start to glow outward, warming up as all around floods. I become a flickering distant light in an ocean of black cloud.

You can’t miss me now. I’m back. I’m right here.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s