drought.

you taste like magic;
like electric tendrils
snaking through my tongue
to converge in the tips
of my fingers where they touch
your waiting skin
in a frenzy of sound and
sensation
the smell of your breathing
like the burning of oxygen
in my lungs.
we could burn the night sky
alive
if we could just
live inside the thunder
and the clouds.
we could hide from the sun
and all her expectations
in the eye of the storm,
in the quiet calm before
destruction,
when everything must be
rebuilt,
and the floods leave the
dry earth
wanting more.