Soapbox

There is a muttering in the heavy summer air
of power  yet to be unleashed,
of tension not resolved
an excess of ions, eager  to detonate.
Sultry and sulking, the air swirls around us
and we turn our faces into the wind, welcoming the storm
the ignition from desire
a breaking of the heat .
They usually shut down all the rides when there is a thunder storm
yet round and around this ferris wheel of ours goes
cars swinging and creaking as we turn.
You see, this is just heat lightning
an upper atmosphere disturbance
negativity out of balance, dry friction,
flashes that light  the clouds but lack the strength to ever reach the ground.
Potential unrealized.

We sit in our little car with it's bright flaking paint and watch the sky.
With each flash I see your face limed in orange like
the underbellies of the clouds
We are breathless in the heat, longing for the explosion to take us
the electric passion to flood our senses
and the rain to drench us
trickling between our lips into our open, gasping mouths
We feel the tingle, keep hoping for a tempest
We wanted to be the thunderstorm
counting the beats, waiting, without culmination.
We are spark with no flame
just heat lightning on a sweltering summer night.