Powdery fog as though the white cloud sky, which expands dome-like forever, had descended to earth to wrap us in a muted ethereal peace we can scarcely believe we deserve and truth be told, we probably don’t. We are thieves on borrowed time. We weave secrets like temptation and open our fragile hearts in ways which can only end with utter devastation. Such is the nature of love and war, words recorded and words discarded altogether.
Soft like a heavenly sigh, the transition from fall into winter is nothing more than a whisper. A winter snow fall is surely only a spark away and autumn seems sure to leave us behind before it’s time. The trees stand bare, tangled dove gray spindles stretching high into the waiting open air. It is clear in my mind, though, much clearer than the hazy dawn as it rolls out into fuzzy birdsong morning. Crystal clear as an ocean swelling in dazzling golden light beneath a bright summer sun. I remember everything about the way you touched my body, coaxed her, made her moan and soak and come alive with each generous stroke. Every eager kiss which pressed and parted my thirsty pink lips.
Sundays are naked days, are full of warm and cozy ways to exist like we’ve spun ourselves right into a small close cocoon, wrapped in blankets by the fireplace. The last two humans left miraculously spared in a bruised and battered world. Turning logs into flame right before our sleepy bedroom eyes. The week will come pounding on the hardwood door of our weary bones tomorrow, cold and stiff as a goddamn corpse. A tortured energy seethes all across the terrified globe, collapsing steel buildings to dust and mountains into the bubbling sea, but we do not think of any of that now. Now, linen skin and fine champagne. Now, buttery toast and that blackberry jam that is so sumptuous with dark bursting sweetness it could make you cry. Now, hot mugs of French coffee and imaginations running wild with plans we swear we will keep for a future we pretend is ours to know.