September 19, 2015
Feathery pulsing light sways on the floor harmonizing with decades old wood grain the color of honey. Outside lithe trees dance. The season is changing with the angle of the sun. In her bones she feels its warmth slide farther away to another window of another world. Time allows her heart to beat deeply against her favorite orange sweater. She pets the vibrant textured fabric, moving faintly so not to disturb their delicate dance. These are the moments that make him love her more. The components. The fibers. The essence and all that is Her. They are quiet together as they often are for long intervals of time, each content in their creative unfolding. A pair of beings experiencing nano-evolutions.
A bird's nest or sculpture piled high is her hair; neck bare, tense in thought. He will kiss it soon. He can tell by the way she repeatedly pauses, slightly watching his fingers move that she won't mind. She chews the end of her paintbrush looking at the sky nodding to the notes he plays, round white orbs dangle from her ears, circulating like full moons. Chords soar, a simple song arrangement; her eyes follow his hands gliding, lingering, working forward and reverse. Repeating. Repeating. She is entranced and paints the canvas in rainbows following his melody. The paint glides and turns, slow then fast. An eye appears, a bird with fluttery wings, snakes that crawl, then a tree. His eyes close as he leans into the song finding a sweet spot, remembering it, focusing, tightening his grip on the feeling. When he opens them she is standing in front of him taking off the familiar sweater.
She stretches her ribs, twisting, arching, opening. Her hand brushes back tousled strands, fingers trailing through salty, damp roots to his warm scalp. He grabs her waist, another instrument. One he knows well. Their bodies smash softly like the paint and the music blends into a warm cocoon. He buries his face into her sternum, turns his head to listen to her heart, holds her tightly. She mumbles something so inaudible only the wind knows for sure. He bites her shirt lightly, then more until flesh stings. His mouth is hot and four hands are roaming, caressing in sync, pulling off clothes like strangers meeting for the first time.