When she calls me, and I lie beneath the waves watching the rain mark its path, I hear violins. I hear the crash and crescendo and the rising of a flute.
When she sings, I taste only the calm. I feel the roll and shift and hear the oboes take up the tune.
I sense the drummers resting their sticks and waiting for their time to strike. They know it is coming. They prepare.
When her voice gasps through the air above my head and the waves meet their crest, I see it. I see her strength.
When the storm rolls in and the trumpets begin the bleat and the cymbals prepare to deafen us all, I hear her silence.
In her violence, when the towns are destroyed and the rain is allowed inside and the thunder burns in streaks down the trees, I taste her peace. I touch the clarinet keys, metal meeting wood.
I smell her breath as it pushes through a French horn and tears away the roofs. She feeds her storm and sets it spinning into me.
It is to her pleasure, the destruction. The joy, the life, she takes and leaves in her footsteps is terrible and wild.
And when she pulls in the tides, I join her orchestra. It’s impossible to resist.
I worship at her altar beneath the water, dead and yet so alive.
Everything is doused in her blue.
Photo by Steve Halama on Unsplash