A break, between the rain, and there is only the drip-drop from the eaves and water from the leaves falling off the oak.
In the time of thunder we cursed; we sweat; we broke ourselves past the point of glue. With my hand on your chest, and yours on my breast, we still are.
Don’t mistake us for violence, us with our fallen limbs and ripped clothing. Violence has not partnered with our labored breath and stained sheets.
There is no anger in your handprint; there is no guilt in my bruise. We are made more tender.
We are still.
In the quiet walls of my quiet house, our words grow softer as my head rises on your sternum. You are sweaty and I taste you sweetly. Your hand tangles in my hair and you untangle it. We are gentle between the rain. Our words are gentle.
We echo gently. Your inhale, my inhale. Your question, my answer. A slippery stroke up my thigh, a murmur, “yes”.
You drag my hips to the edge of the bed where your fingers trace your fingers’ marks.
On a clap of thunder, you begin again, striking my raised bottom with your open hand. Again and again. And again and again, until we are slick with water.