incessant pounding

I listen to the rain in the peak of the night and think of you. The wind cools my hot skin as it blows in through the open window; and I think of nights past, buried deep in my past, when we spent stormy nights together.

The smell of late spring thunderstorms remind me of your skin- the wild, sweetness of it. And as lightening flashes, I remember our outlined edges and how distinction wasn't important.

The gray color reminds me of our love-lust when staying in meant as much adventure as heading out. And when all I see is gray, I can't help but feel a certain itch, a deep inner longing that craves satisfaction from you. I am blind with want...

And wet. Because nothing I do prevents the dampness from each droplet permeating my clothes, my skin. And even though I've long since come in from the wet outside, I'm still not dry on the inside-

And I teeter on the edge of madness, because the incessant pounding, the rhythm reminds me....and in this moment of anticlimactic satisfaction, I am fully, unadulteratedly teased.