My daytime is spent assessing damage control from the mayhem, force, and devastation of you.
You are my natural disaster and I can get no aid or relief.
How can I?
You are the frenetic funnel cloud that relentlessly appears out of nowhere on a serene summer day, the vortex that upends any resistance in its path.
And I am the isolated lover, somehow still left standing, locked in a constant struggle with the power of your nature.
The best I can hope for is to stem my erosion.
But then night comes and the whirling, swirling energy that surrounds you suddenly stops.
Just like that, it ceases.
You are such a different phenomenon when you sleep – peaceful, ethereal – a body of motion finally at rest.
And the glow of electrically-charged particles eases off your skin and enters the evening, a sacred nightlight meant only for me.
And the echo of creation haunts your breath, thickening the sound into metered respiration, a whisper of trust meant only for me.
You are my natural disaster and the eye of your whirlwind is worth any damage.