Thunder and lightning

You rise and reach, gathering, building potential every moment before we meet. I sink low and ground myself, the dark base of the cloud. I hold, I wait, I gather weight. The storm is born in the distance between us, in the pull of opposites held apart, longing across the gap.

The gap between us pulls. It hums. It holds tension, voltage rising the longer we hold our poles. You will not become me. I will not become you. The more we hold, the more the air between us tightens, toward the moment we can no longer stay apart.

Then the threshold breaks. The longing grows too great to hold. The lightning is the meeting, positive and negative crossing the void in a single white seam, the release of everything held back in the waiting. You are the flash, the visible part of us. I am the thunder, the deep voice that answers, the whole sky resounding because we met.

The meeting empties us so we can fill again. Negative sinks, positive rises, the distance opens. The longing rebuilds. The storm is not one strike. It is the endless return of poles parting so we can meet, meeting so we must part. The thunder rolls long after.

I am learning to stay grounded in the wait.