The heaviness in the air of the coming storm echoes the long-held glance, steeped in wanton depth, marinated in nuance. Deep breaths of subtle anticipation whisper as softly as the wind that starts to pick up, stirring the leaves as the breath stirs inward. There might be a spattering of rain, insistent upon foretelling the coming deluge. The trace of touch along the arm or shoulder rumbles like that distant thunder. It is quiet yet, this storm. But it is still on its way, the charged ions of skin and air, they mingle and fuse with breath, wind, black clouds, a deep kiss. Hair swept back by hands, touches traced down warm skin. A flash of lightening slams thunder down as clothing drops to the floor. The wind picks up now, swaying trees and blowing curtains. Gentle no more, it is fierce and urgent, the rain falls fast, the dewpoint reached, the clouds unable to keep back the heavy moisture. Hands on skin, grasping. Flashes of light capture each moment, gripping and wild, breath urgent with crashes of thunder shaking foundations of both house and bodies. Wild and heedless, the storm moves across mountains and valleys, caressing fields and rivers alike, cascading its dangerous nurturing power across everything in its path. Skin melds, breath mingles, desire is brought to the threshold. Sheets crumpled, wind fierce. As the thunder crashes and shakes with force, the edge of the precipice is beneath and rain and sound and touch culminate. It is urgent, this cumulus gathering of energy. A final brilliant flash of light and the echoes of thunder rumble away, leaving the rain to fall gently on the earth below. The waning force of skin and storm fades softly, breathing slows, while clouds drift away and moonlight shines on.
Metaphor8 08 2013