Touching you was like static electricty in a dark room, a makeshift thunderstorm in your fingers, you had more noise in you than a little heart could handle; so you came bursting open: screaming, hands punching the air and gasping for sanity; they said if you hear God it's probably purgatory what would they call it when I hear the windclap of your hips a sonic boom and the quiet of your eyes like blood rushing to my head in an anechoic chamber; would they call it madness or delusion or a mix of a little bit of both; could be alcohol, could be love because when I lit a match in your darkness, it burned the whole house down.