Brutal is not the exact, correct word to describe the wind yesterday in West Texas, but it was. It continued to howl past midnight because it blew in through my windows, across my pillow and formed a tornado in my dreams.
Everywhere I turned, in the building made of glass, I could see the tornado approaching. Frantic, there was no way out as I considered digging through the stone floor with my nails. Thinking if I turned around one more time, I could find a solution, a hand grabbed me. Your long fingers encircled my wrist and I screamed "no." You pulled me through a door and shut the heavy steel to hide the storm. Quietly I said again, "no."
"The storm is coming," you insisted while burning their meaning into my eyes with your own. With my wrists bound by your hands, I touched your ear with my lips. A roar in my ears was deafening, but I whispered, "I know this music. This is my dance." You released me and I ran for the door to open it just in time.
The storm still blows. Blue sky and sunshine are the lies. Come dance with me.
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