The Gleam

It's rainy and dark and cool. The storm rode in last night under the rising full moon with a temper I haven't seen for a long time. The breeze blew in and stroked my arms, curled around my wrists and tangled in my hair. Murmured against my neck and licked the humidity that had pooled in my decolletage. It called to me, sang to the snake in my belly to dance, sliding over itself, coiling and uncoiling. Hypnotic.

We turned off the overhead lights and watched eachother in the strobe flashes that lit up the sky, eyes glittering and pupils dilating. Felt that deep, primal hunger as the sky split in two. Heard the anguish as it tore above us.

I felt the heat rush my skin, blush it with the energy that scorched the air. Channeled it within, let it flow through my veins, pooling at the molten core. Listened to the roar of anger around us, felt it shake the floor, the walls, the bed. Met it with an intensity of my own, eyes golden, gleaming.

Sought release, fought with it, waited, held back, needing the torrent of rain that would not come. Burning with the anger of the storm, rebelling, heating, divining. Until it lashed down, beating at the walls and the windows and the doors, cooling the air. Felt the violence, pulled it into me, let it mate with my heart until it sparked, golden fireworks. Pure electricity in human form, unearthly eyes, for a second at least, the embodiment of The Gleam.