Friday, January 6, 2012

Mothballs

Friday.  Five a.m.  The radio sings me awake, calling me to coffee.  Roused I head for the shower, turn around and sit back, head resting, shoulder bound, eyes stuck, gazing toward a spot in the floor where the stain of words remains around the faint chalk outline of love.

Anything but dull, yet nothing dramatic.

Steamy liquid splashes across it's cozy borders through crackling lips slightly parted and aromatically fills a body with life as the sun toys with the horizon, finally considering setting the night on fire.  Sulfur fills the air and smoke permeates already lifeless lungs.

The sweetness of a lasting touch slips through an open door, leaving loving lingering on my face.  The orbital axis shifts once more.  Drawn.  Like a horse.  Like a bath.  Like a sketch. Like a moth.

Sputtering, stuttering, stammering they almost fell from a tongue to land at my feet. Another broken - almost existence.  I can imagine nothing so perfect as exactly that.  Except the sugar water in his skin and the silent sadness in his eyes.  Once they live, they will remain.  Those words, like mothballs, to my heart.   

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