Underneath a rollercoaster, I wait to ask my current spectral paramour

Have you ever seen whispers become
a cyclone? It’s unerring the way they
gather, all those quarter thoughts,
nibbles of insight that could have
become novels but are instead
impatient to be loosed into the world,
in search of a new ear to call home,
a new eye to tap dance for, a new
synapse to nestle into, put down roots,
light a log fire. Oh now I’m distracted
by which is the better metaphor for love:
the storm or the flame; it was best
when you were both, at once, in note,
on screen, in dust touch, in feather talk.
Oh, you were my cyclone. Still I spin,
breathe, spin, breathe, wait, go again
go again go again on to the weather
walk to wait for the cloud elevator
with you riding it to land again.