When Storms Collide

After Jeanann Verlee’s The Telling

She is wildfire.

He a hurricane. Their words melting

together like steam. Rising and rising until

at last they condense and leave little droplets

sliding down their open mouths. Lightning strikes

flames burst but the fire cannot hear wind.

The hurricane cannot feel heat.

Here lies the problem.

She wants what he can’t provide.

The hunger for adventure tickling her insides

clawing her abdomen until a spark ignites

and she erupts.

Her words fall like embers

they burn her throat and land with a sizzle.

The fire yearns for destruction, consuming

one life after another never fully satisfied.

He wants to douse her desires.

To drench her dreams.

The hurricane bellows blindly with no ambitions except

to harm, to hurt, to leave a path of wounded helpless in its wake.

They collide and defense is futile.

Fist through jaw

Fingers around throat

Nails dig deep

etching lines into flesh

Cries for help, for mercy, for compassion go unheard

When these storms diverge

They blindly devastate whatever lay in their path

without guilt

without remorse.

Products of wind and fire sit criss-cross

with empty stomachs and blank stares.

Crayola smears depicting the elegant entropy

that has become their Saturday Morning Cartoon.

Blazing inferno and screeching wind flare on.

Eyes ablaze with the thrill of a storm she thrashes away

with graceful gestures, flames licking anything in it’s grasp.

She shouts out his insecurities

craving only more wreckage.

Collectively scrambling for shelter

each wide-eyed storm surge knows

the eye has passed.

The Hurricane would now ensue full force.

Soaring at each other head first

The storm trudged on through the night.

Their debris ridden bodies flying together

in a tango of demolition.