I write this for your brown eyes, for the mist which leaves us in the morning, taking away with it the riddles of the night. I write this for the dense hair, for the lingering taste, the questions of my own making. I write this for the conversations warm as a blanket, insistent in nature, flowing over us as the enveloping clouds. I write about the anticipation of your next move, swirling like colors in water. The toasty gaze. The skinny coffee. The morning of a different kind.
I write this for your bright eyes, alight with possibilities, lending weight to the minutes slipping by. I write this for the way I let go of the ropes to fall all the way down and rise up again, much like the rocks raised by frost, like the cream in frothy milk. Oh the pleasurable sips. The nibbling bites. I write this for the inexplicable loss of words on the meaning of it all as we just lay there in a haze, sketching unnecessary lines in empty space. An odd quivering kiss. The edge. Oh the straight line.
Have you seen me trip? Beyond definitions, I live in the mist. Beyond the sticky treacle, a sorbet to suck on. A slow dance to live by. Disappears, if allowed to. And we are back to smiling at each other from a distance – quite a summer in December.