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By Madison Date: 2003 Feb 21 Comment on this Work [[2003.02.21.17.49.28918]] |
| Somewhere between the pasta and the tira mi su, I felt you half-letting go of me last night, as I have half-come, half- gone from the start. All night the moon rained, pushing its force from the west, from the north. I dreamed of fire in my hands and my mother watched as I cried. The morning whispered, waking us, leg over leg, feet fastened. It's been hours since your words swept soft across my lips, across my hair as it teased against your chest. You chose your words like a full-bodied red, letting them breathe, drinking their sounds back in from my lips. The morning is water-logged, heavy as a pregnant breast. It spills in thought, woven from a string of windflower petals, falling to the ground of you.
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