For the slimmest second,
encased in a thunder's
smack
against the rough skyline.
I could breathe.

That's the truth.
Honest-to-god,
hand-on-the-bible
Truth.


Rain.
Rain shimmering in silk strands
from the roof.
All that water
somehow keeping us insulated.

"You can't go home in this," I said.

You nodded.
A car's rearview lights
slid your face into focus.
Lit by a tinned kind of moonlight.
A shake-before-pouring
brand of brilliance.

You looked out the window.
"Mad *******," you said.
But your eyes said
maybe you could follow him
onto the road.

"Yeah, one hell of a storm."

Pursed lips.
A reluctant, just formed
twitch of a smile.


You asked if I didn't mind sharing the bed.

God, I wish that I could debate my answer for more
than a millionth of a second.


And when I woke up,
you, on the other side of the bed
fingers warm,
loose,
curled around my thumb.

That was it.
That one tiny point of contact,
it lit up the sky.

And I swear,
I could breathe.