Singing in Thunder

Sometimes I hear myself singing. It can be anywhere. My body starts to hum foreign melodies over my skin. Goosebumps prickle into symphonies and pirouettes beneath each hair. Legs start to shake with the heavy thrum of sound that gyrate in each vein. Oxygen floods to my head and the silence is something each nerve dances to and breathes off.

My foot taps to rain and my heart jumps to lightning. But in thunder it doesn't hear each beat or sound or note. It flails and suffers off key. Thunder is hungry for the chime we exhale. So it indulges until a blend of cadence drones on and on. Once it's finally done, it goes as quickly as it came. And I go back to singing as I did. But something sounds off key. It always will forever be, beautiful yet ugly, loud and silent, distorted sound that sounds as clear as before. But different somehow.