Into the Fluid

I watched every expression of your face as the blue hues turned and twisted in the twilight of dreams, the tomorrow of my memories. I placed your eyes in front of mine and held them there; a token taken from longing afterwards of the sky’s limit on the even after I hold you place that sits offen in my mind. The pinewoods hang their boughs for you, the sometimes light they do let through; it falls, not on, but near a cheek of soft and flow and always in my hand is all the mourning dew of lost is how I find myself if life is without you.

A small tree hung in the clear sky on the hill from my off the path view. The twilight hours were waiting for me. The morning sun holds most of my memories and its light reminds me: only the bright ones worth keeping, only the hard laboured sun slides are those you take with you. But you can't take anything, on another hill, in another time, and between two gypsy spins, I heard once said. So it all stays here, I say: In your heart or hung outstretched, it's all there between a small tree clear and the huge hill of the morning's night sky.

Think of rain in November, the all wet around, and drizzle all over. Breathe the snow, its fuzz while outside you're dancing. Feed the hunger with passion's fruit and wet your lips dangle across skin. Stretch your tongue taste all this vivid, its curls and burrows, the cold ice of Remember.