The Weatherman

3:50 am

It was 2 in the morning when he showed up at the front door. Exhaustion covered his face. His faint smile, soft, crackling voice and sleepy eyes made it look like he had just been pulled from the battlefield. Only hours before Pablo's landfall, he had decided to call it a night. His watch began at twilight the day before, and way past daybreak, he was still sending weather advisories only few ever get to read.

I may not understand his work, or why does he have to stay very late, but I felt his human need. So I let him in; showed him to my room and even helped him change to his sleeping clothes - the ones I wear at home. It doesn't matter that we didn't talk; that we cuddled briefly, or that we didn't make out like we used to once I lock my door. When the blanket was spread and the television turned off, I wrapped my arms around his naked chest, his head snugly rested on my shoulders. 

Kane once said that for all the lives we lived, the struggles we faced and the defeats we overcame - all by our solitary selves, we still yearn for that one person who would make a difference: to hear from his own words that we are not alone, and that no matter the difficulties are, everything will be okay. Words were hardly spoken when he slept over, yet our hands locked and our bodies remained intertwined the whole night. And for two hours of borrowed time - before he returns sending weather bulletins, and I resume constructing my fortress while laying waste to my own fields  - the nocturnal bliss almost felt like, my veins almost pulsed like, 

the weatherman and I are already one.