Being so in our arms at the exact moment of rain. Thunder in the distance as I try to exhale my belongings, my word of mouth phrasing and philosophies. Accumulations of multicolored ribbons and haphazard oil paintings depicting a mastery of spectrum. The other day you flew west through what looked like stratospheric clouds, what really looked like antelope and blue aroma, booming swiftly as they flattened meadows feverish with breathing. The westerly blew that storm back to this coast and my pathetic harbor of glassware and antlers, stacked to the ceiling to mimic the architecture of daydreams or ancient Greece. When the thunder cracks I hear the lightning with my pulse. Hearing light is the most diamond of waves to swallow. When you fly home I hope our seagulls push back the tides from themselves in an effort to reverse the earth's spinning, the moon unhitching itself in a whisper that sounds like yours and buckling instead to the fabulous caverns of space-time. Then I'll make us coffee and we can babble in the deep shade of earthquakes, forever dreaming of the word forever.
C.J. Opperthauser co-edits Threadcount, a journal of hybrid prose, and blogs at http://thicketsandthings.tumblr.com. He lives in Providence, Rhode Island.