There is fire in my bones and lightning in your lungs. When we kiss it’s like a thunderstorm. Two tectonic plates crash against each other and somewhere in the world starts quaking. Seismic waves are quicker than calling. Continental drift is the earth’s defence mechanism for commitment. Static electricity, like miscommunication, is simply friction in motion. I am crushing sandstorms between my teeth, breathing in hurricanes like oxygen, swallowing the volcanic ash of survival; to think we are all made of liquid love and some will never feel the force of a tsunami. Sometimes I am stuck in the eye of a tornado, others I am spinning in it. Either way, we are a whirlwind of skin and bone; flesh and blood; bruises and scars. Laying in the fresh rubble of our own creative destruction, I realise, our love is an oxymoron; a natural disaster; a phenomenon scientists could only dream of understanding.