Can I feel your heart? 

The beats moved swiftly and rhythmically, trying to match my levels of exhilaration. She pressed her ear against my chest and a slight smile appeared on her lips, sending me warmth and the beat of my heart rose to crescendo. 

There’s no beginning and there is no end to this story. Perhaps I shouldn’t call it a story or a poem. I sometimes refer to it as a stream of consciousness, a form my emotions seem to take when unable to find a vessel but in need of spilling out. Cascading words spewing out and foreboding love with an urgency to be heard. 

I went to a psychologist the other day and she told me my heart was beating far too fast. She prescribed various sedatives, but none of them seemed to leave any effects. I’ve gotten pretty fond of my fast beating heart and I now often lay my hand atop my chest and feel the shape of the organ as it jumps in and out of my chest in an attempt to escape. The noise it makes as it pounds, almost a song my insides made just for her. I listen to it everynight in an attempt to slumber and yearn it’ll prompt my brain for dreams of her. 

It was silent. 

The only sounds bouncing off the walls in search of echo was the thunderstorm. We didn’t seem to notice it, or maybe we did, but didn’t care enough to process the memory. Heavy raindrops pattered against her window and a soft rumble sent the room in vibration. A flicker of light gleamed to her eyes. They were dark, but made me feel heavy and riddled. Like I was blocked and sent on a search for understanding. The light flicker unlocked a type of beauty a human eye must never see. Maybe this is love. I neglected time and stared into that second for eternity. The flicker of a second, so beautiful the ways her eyes shone, I had my mind freeze the time.

I want to see her. 

The room was dark and we relied on our senses; I closed my eyes, letting the darkness in.

Our hands entangled in a need for connection and her fingers rubbed against my palm. Under mountains of blankets, our bare skin pressed against one another in need of warmth and vulnerability. She smelled sweet and warm, kind of like cocoa butter, but instead it’s something unique and just for her. I grazed my lips against her neck and kissed her. I whispered This is love and lightning struck.

Whenever loneliness eases in, like water slipping through cracks, I find myself writing to her. Maybe it’s a device of recollection, or maybe an emotion follows, so harsh, it must be let out. 

The lighting struck, the thunder rumbled, and my heart pounds.

The rain hasn’t stopped.

Sleep now hounds me and although I long for thoughts of her… well… goodnight. 

I love the rain.