Moonlight rises, brightness falls. Each day a rotation. Every moment a different angle of sun. The changes happen quietly; ripples on a surface, like the beading hints of anticipation that precede a wanted touch finally melting into the skin.
I don't like this chill. The creeping, unnamed feeling, These rising whispers warning that the waters of spring could somehow slip through my fingers whether I want them to or not. This sense that there's a cold coming from the north that my Florida-thinned blood somehow won't be prepared enough to handle.
Change inevitably follows the cold.I don't want to feel like you're too far away. I don't want to think of a time when that I can't feel a smile floating above silver swallows on a chain.
There's nothing you can do to stop the thaw.But has winter really come and gone so soon?
How is it that I can know the warmth of your sunlight just from the the sound of a song, but cannot for the life of me seem to keep my grasp on the ice that has formed between the distant winds of December?"Even after the night had ended, the presence of Creta Kano and the fragrance
of Christian Dior eau de cologne lingered in the house like captive shadows."
I don't like this chill. The creeping, unnamed feeling, These rising whispers warning that the waters of spring could somehow slip through my fingers whether I want them to or not. This sense that there's a cold coming from the north that my Florida-thinned blood somehow won't be prepared enough to handle.
Just because we haven't figured out how this is going to work
doesn't mean that I'm ready to hear there's nothing I can do.
[Listening to: Coal Chamber, "Big Truck"]
Comments