Flooding In You

My name moves
and floods through you.
Fierce. Strong.

At first, it’s quiet.
Then it rises
the first sound of thunder,
looking out for the first sign of lightning.

You open the window of your eyes
to listen to the sound,
to hear the rain
beat against the ground.

Nothing is soft about this.
It pours
each drop heavier than the last,
pressed against the softest parts of you.

The world doesn’t concern itself.
We’re the only ones here.
There’s no need for cars,
no umbrellas.
There isn’t an urgency to find safety.

When my breath leaves me,
it rises through you
in surrender.

It didn’t come like lightning.
It started slow.
A drop of rain,
holding its breath,
not knowing where to go.

Not afraid to fall
and splash,
discovering the warmth
of your body.

There isn’t a need to rush.
No need to evacuate.
I don’t consider this drowning.

But eventually,
your knees will hear my name
before your ears.