I am the storm.
I exist to direct the winds, to orchestrate the plush moments between each thrust of damp air in your lungs.
I record and re-tell the exact sucking sounds your mouth makes as you tend to the wounds we’ve torn in each other’s flesh.
I am the vessel.
The softness, the unnamable ache.
Little dabs of light and sound, the smattering of stars behind your eyes, the smell of molten wax.
But you, you are the altar.
The elements, the crash and sting, the scream and the whisper.
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