By Chidiebere Sullivan



The cloud had a wet dream a night ago, our compound
assumed a track for the racing flow. The roof misled
the patio into an inlet— a mercy offered to us at a
gunpoint of climax. Your mind, clogged as fuck. Every
flash of lightning left behind blackout spells that
revealed before me, the nudity of your messy mind.
Our first kiss wasn’t all that bright and simple, it was
in-between rainstorms. You, freshly undone from
hallucinating. I, patiently waiting for your recovery.
The hope was that you don’t lose the portion of your
memory that embroidered the sketch of my form.
Through the storm, I found your face next to mine.
Your lips, a theophany for closure and reawakening.
“Has it been pouring all night,” you asked. “Except for you,
the sky outside is always bright and clear,” I responded. In
that moment, the dark cloud dissipated from your
mind: It was just you all along, assuming a saviour was
confronting what torments you on your behalf. You
dug a hole through the curtain to see what was on the
outside, only to catch the sun against a clear sky
hanging so close to the roof, and a blue mirage running
towards your door. You understood then that I was
only imaginary— the other side of your face.
That harmattan is only a dry season with
sore lips, habitual for bed-wetting your mind
A brazen mess you’re shy to admit.