Perspective from a Poetwolf
Hurricanes Are Not Just Thunderstorms.I don’t want ‘just sex’.
Sex in a vacum
Sex in a box
Sex for a moment, (or maybe a few minutes)
An hour and then gone.
I don’t want to ‘get off’.
Get laid.
Get some.
I don’t want to show up.
Fuck,
Go home.
I don’t want to pretend
That you are the greatest.
The best.
So unique.
Never had it like this before.
I don’t want to imagine that this is the best it will ever be.
This time.
Until next time.
The next person.
I want the Hurricane.
I want you to have a name.
I want to know you when you were just a Tropical Storm.
Before the unbelievable happens.
Before you destroy me.
Ruin me.
I want to feel you building.
Over time.
I want you to make me think about you.
Not be able to breathe without feeling the impending chaos and power of you.
I want to feel the subtle shift in the atmosphere.
The breeze beginning to move the leaves upon branches.
The clouds coloring from white,
To grey,
To black.
I want to anticipate you.
For days.
I want to know you are coming like an army marching
Into my brain
And my heart
And my body
And my soul.
I want the moment of your arrival to be so powerful
That I must wonder if I can survive.
And then I will stay with you.
Bury myself deep within you.
Through the intensity.
The chaos.
The passion
The complete and utter destruction of every last part of me.
And then I will breathe.
I will enjoy the after.
The recovery.
The feeling of immense Joy that follows you.
Follows the utter exhaustion
And rapture of being on the other side of you.
Of us.
Of that…storm.
You didn’t arrive on my doorstep.
I didn’t walk into your apartment.
We built a tension and energy over time that led to moments of complete freedom
From thought.
From time
And from the mediocrity of ‘just sex’
And that is why I chose you.
And you chose me.
Let others play.
We will destroy ourselves in ways that can never be imagined if Hurricanes were just thunderstorms.
