Sitting in the front seat of a rustic truck,
whose paint has seen more thunderstorms
than my skin has years,
you look so still,
like a porcelain doll,
with the fading light of the tired sky
casting its blue blankets over both our eyes.

Through the pitter-patter
as raindrops splatter on the roof,
in time with the erratic static
of the radios endless loops
I can hear you breathing in...
and out...

And as raindrops trickle down the windows
their silhouettes becoming waterfalls;
shadows running down your face
and over your cheeks to your lips...
down your neck,
and under the warm thick folds of the blanket
that hides wordless fingertip games.

The sound of your breath like slow tide
interrupted by a tidal wave;
a thunder clap so loud we shake.
An electric explosion so bright it wakes
the souls of the living that were secretly sleeping,
safe and sound with the darkness deepening.

My arms pull you close
and your arms pull you closer,
pressing your ear to my chest
and my chest to your ear
so tight that it's easy to hear
the my own thunder inside.

Your eyes close,
your heart slows,
and as your pulse settles down
the trees start to dance and sway,
gently, side to side,
through the wind and rain.

Our stories begin to unfold
in sleep and in dreams
as the rain begins to fade.
And through the clouds
a different trickle,
a leak;
a lonely sun beam
warming your cheek.