Imagine netting a tornado inside tenuous human veins, all its spinning, howling, spitting, raging pressed inside the web of blood, crushing the very air until your ears pop with the strength of it. But it leaves the veins standing, seeming to choose, in its absurd way, to destroy one thing and leave its neighbor untouched. To shake and crack the tree trunks, to bend the arc of the sky, to beat the ground until it dances, and turn the air to slog between, but lets the blood run.
Imagine pulling the stars out of the sky and packaging them in human skin, the whole burning roil of them wrapped inside our paper outsides. Inextinguishable heat that makes a bonfire look like a match spark. Tireless, and ageless, and ages old.
Imagine an avalanche stacked in human bones. Not the one you see crumpled at the bottom of the mountain, spent and safe, but the one waiting on the slopes, capable of anything, that makes you tilt your head back and hold your breath.
Imagine it – him – standing on two legs, indestructible as an ocean, irresistible as a tide.
And conscious of every pound of his strength.
Gentled by it, not because he fears breaking the world around him, but because he knows it is worth keeping whole. Confident, because of everything he is, because of everything he does, enough to stand still and smile lightly, move slow and strike fast, speak honestly and lie smoothly.
And always be a star-bright avalanche, ready to descend.
So when he whispers, “You should show me some respect,” you feel the rumble.