The Rain is Our Lullaby
We lay in bed with the TV off because ratchet shows named after love and any musical genre are purposely, poisonously tainted images of what love is supposed to look like, no matter what state in America they are filmed in. Both of our phones are off and sitting on the nightstand because no one is calling us that we have any interest in speaking with at this hour. I only want to hear her voice and she only wants to hear mine. There’s nothing happening on Instagram, Twitter, or Facebook that’s more important than what’s happening between us so we leave the rest of the world where it belongs for now, outside of our bedroom as we remain locked together in our intimacy, protected by the sanctity of our privacy.
There is no music playing as we show our affection in the most primal, passionate ways without shame. We’re not trying to hide the sound of our sex with R&B songs with the volume of our stereo turned all the way up. We don’t care if all of our neighbors can hear the headboard banging rhythmically against the wall to the melody of the noisy springs in our mattress. Only the pillow gripped in her teeth muffles her moans and if people outside of our walls listened closely, they might hear all of the beautifully dirty things I say to her while we make love. That’s what she wants and what she likes. She’s told me before that I have the soul of a poet but fuck her like a savage. It gives her butterflies when I’m sweet and she shows me how wet she gets when I become a beast. I love that I can be myself because she welcomes the complicated, creative, soulful side of me that most other women never understood but, she also isn’t afraid of the unpredictable, unbridled maelstrom that I can be. She gets sucked into what I am and doesn’t drown. Besides that, she’s just as wildly uncivilized at times as I am and proves it to me every chance she gets. She gives me wild sex when we’re alone, deep science when we exchange knowledge and real soul in ways that I’ve never had before.
Once we’re done, we lay side-by-side, still sexually high and not bothered by the gray skies outside. While we try to catch our breath, the storm clouds finally burst with a flash of lightning that momentarily illuminates our dark room followed by the deafening clap of the thunder’s boom. She rolls over, throws her leg over me and puts her hand on my chest as droplets of water beat against our window. I hold onto her tightly as if I fear that she might somehow disappear as the rain outside rocks us both to sleep like a lullaby.
Copyright © 2016 Keith Kareem Williams
All rights reserved.
***I hope you enjoyed this short piece I wrote specifically for the blog. I've been inspired lately and have been meaning to write it for a few days now. I'm thinking about including it in "Sometimes Brooklyn, Mostly Mars Volume 2." ***