While the hands stood like stamens, thistle seeds drifted closely past the membrane over our eyes, the storm whipped flakes of skin through the dark like ashes, and shadows raised themselves sharply and incomprehensibly against the grass, the moonlight-soft square between the trees where steps make no noise.
A drop of moon spilled down on us, and the body glowed white in its early darkness.
Then, your eyes, mellow with light, like lines in a letter that finds me anywhere.
6 notes
August, 2010
