If only the rain would come

The night air drips, heavy, sultry
and dark with weight,
a hint of early summer’s grass.
In the distance, a promise of thunder.

Left unspoken, a world of words between us,
are hopes unborn and dreams unlived.

We hovered, lips held a whisper apart,
hearts flatlined as souls congeal in utter silence.

So the fragile planet that is us
freezes over in an eternal hiatus.
I will it to spin off its axis
and at least tumble into a kind of nothing.

But you hold my head under,
in a permanent state of drowning
in the dryness and utter desolation of waiting.

Was that lightning in the east?

Oh that the rain would come and fall,
crash raging on me,
pelting like needles against my skin,
for me to die a million deaths,
then to resurrect, finally animated by pain:
to feel again, the terror of free falling,
screaming at the invasion of all your emotions,
draining blood, a rush to my head.

Then to melt and be engulfed at last,
in the oblivion of sweet, sweet rain.