He was thunder when all I wanted was the pitter-patter of rain.
Lightning blazed in his eyes, and his mouth was a neverending river, a river that was polluted and black, where the fish had died a long time ago and their corpses floated up, up, up towards the surface.
He was thunder, and when I saw him, I wanted to cover myself and hide. I don't want my clothes to get wet from the rain, I don't want to hear the crash of thunder in my brain, and I don't, don't, don't want to see the darkness of the sky.
I prefer the sun. White clouds. Because when thunder arrives at your doorstep and puts its black cloak over the horizon, the birds stop singing.
I don't want the birds to stop singing.
And yet, I'm still staring at him.
Opposites attract?
But then again, only he's the magnet.
And maybe, just maybe, I want to fish in that river of his.
