Natural Disaster

Laying next to you I know I heard it.  A flutter.  A Shuffle.  A burn or a shiver.  I’m not sure what, but it was movement, friction.  An archaic, rusty beating despite the death we both knew hung over your head like an Old Testament curse.  It was delicate and humble like the seed we saw in the garden, accidently sprouting before the spring.  I remember how you bent over it with a quiet bewilderment.  It was so tiny and green and desperate to drink in the sun. It was precious.  And it horrified you.  So you plucked it, brow furrowed.  But the roots did not come so you violently clawed at the soil, staining and crusting your fingers with time.  It took you minutes to undo what took nature thousands of years to pack down.  And I’ll never forget how you looked back up at me and smiled.  Eyes large and ferocious, fresh from the kill.  You were so pleased with yourself, dangling this web of thin life from your fingers like a trophy.  I should have known then you weren’t a soul to nurture so much as a force to reckon with. A natural disaster that lived above, maybe below, but definitely outside any of the moral laws that bound the rest of the world together.   Something other. That freely allowed itself to tear up all things intentional, beautiful and delicate because it was in its power to do so and do so gracefully.  But I still slept with you that night…and every night after, because I felt it when you closed your eyes.  The humming that resided deep within your cavity.  That almost sounded like my name.  That drew me in and stirred me up.  Made my hair stand on end.  I thought it was connection.  An intimate dance between protons and electrons that raced and charged and could not be reproduced.  Electricity.  I should have known I was only chasing a storm.