Everything is dark

apart from the lightning in the sky that pours

into our space. I lie on my belly on your bed

as you stand by the window wowing at the thunder

and I’m even jealous of the sky.

A woman we both admire asked me once, ‘why

do you always write about blood?’

 

And today was like any other day, we

hurt each other and healed each other

as though to have an excuse

to apologise, to declare

our love. This is not bdsm – there is no safe word,

no shiny pvc, no lightning whip, it has no tedious formula

it’s not dirty, it is filthy; it is love.

 

We ate olives and almonds, watched

a sapphic film with a sad ending, painted our nails

neon green, and listened to the rain, and I recalled a dead friend

who said, ‘nobody howls like Heathcliff from love, it would be

hilarious in the age of Tinder,’ and maybe I’m in agreement, but not today.

You open the window to the dark rain, and as the electricity

slaughters the sky, you howl and I notice I’ve never been so calm.