The storm

The storm came, suddenly, simply announced by the whistling of the wind, domineering in its chant, pushing trash cans aside, knocking them over loudly, big drops, cold and strong like crystal, came crashing on the pavement, streams formed in the gutters, going through the turgescent green of trees, tearing off leaves, twigs, bark and dust, any pieces of wood and nature, that were then snatched by the wind, swung around in emphatic curves, and scattered over the ground, still running and jumping down there, hitting walls and obstacles ferociously, this dark raging messing up the grass and flowerbeds, like a claw going through the head of hair, and i was thinking, how would i love to have a woman surging through the chaos, her wet hair gathered in thick strands, tortuous lianas, her redden eyes piercing me, dust over her face, her loosen clothes, weighted by water, disarranged, grasping her skin, pale and cold underneath, crossed by goosebumps and shivers, going out of the storm, how i would press myself against her, twist my legs around hers, i would rub in her embrace, even if i was freshly out of the shower, perfumed, and dressed in neat white clothes, i would bury my head deep in her, lay my face on her cheek and in her wet hair, i would lick her tense body, give it warmth, i would make love roughly, rolling in puddles, i would taste the chaos of passion, we will cover ourselves with dirt, the erratic coldness, the libidinous untidiness will make me rise, i want to entangle myself in an unclean lust.

Fact is i'm the one wiped out by the black storm.