There’s thunder and now rain. In your ear, I whisper it so it sounds like the distant hum of the sea. There’s lightning, too. It flashes and illuminates the town when it should be sleeping. When I was a kid, they told me it was the man in the moon moving his furniture around. Or that it was God. I’m not sure what God was supposed to be doing. I preferred the man in the moon story, myself. The idea of some guy just dragging his table and chairs around in the middle of this rock suspended thousands of miles above my head in perfect isolation- my innocent mind found it quite romantic. Also, when I was a wee nipper, I was told there was a giant plug at the bottom of the ocean, and that if this plug were lifted, all the waters on earth would disappear. The thought of this left me fascinated because I wanted to see all the sunken ships and all that had remained hidden for so many thousands of years, and I wanted to catch a glimpse of those secrets the likes of which so many had never had a chance to glimpse. The thunder’s getting heavy now. It’s just a few miles away. As you curl beneath the blankets, I imagine pulling them down and caressing your breasts with my eyes beaming as the flashes of lightning reveal your body to me in strange new ways. It’s a delicate and beautiful moment, and yet in each beat of our hearts, there’s war and fury and enough energy to wipe out pretty much everything that binds us to our useless pasts. In these moments, we are alive and on the cusp, and yet for the life of me, I can’t shake off the end. Still, your breasts remind of happy times and, in particular, a childhood holiday to Somerset and the zoo I visited there. There was this dog that belonged to the owners of which I befriended. It was a border collie, and for the best part of a day in the boiling sunshine, we danced in circles not seeing anything other than yellows and blues while hearing only birdsong and laughter. You bring this out of me in ways you’ll never know, and this is why I keep you close.