(I love that I'm making books and writing again. I'm not quite sure if I'm writing stories...poetry...or some strange combination of the two. But I think it works.)
Memory slothes across the floor, gripping at the edges of the jagged tiles to pull itself slowly closer. Sara sits atop a precarious desk, stock-still. Mute. She screams out the disaster through her wide eyes. Hands blaze with white blue lashes of bulging veins. Her skin is searing against the cold breath that is steaming up her glasses. Oxygen catches in her sensitive lungs, and suffocation sets in.
Will no one save her?
Awake.
Eyes still closed. Still warm, still shoved underneath the layers of extra heat. No violating glare sifting its way through the thin membranes that protect against unwanted, unnecessary sight. Certain parts are aware enough of other members of the same body; they move together now. Shift. Cocoon deeper. Drift.
Sleep.
No room to move, but there are no qualms. No need for alarm. A simple softness curls its way around Saras torso, and she realizes, she is not alone. She curves her skin, stretches, moves with this new entity. Deity. Lacey hair drifts across open senses, and fingers write melodies that seep into supple creases of humanity. A kiss. Lips search with the intention of new comfort, finding intrigue. To know more is the key.
Know a new way to love.
Fight the rotation of planets and stars.
One more moment.
Drift.
Small hands made to find each other grasp for a stronger hold. Sara smiles. Safe without protection. A fairy tale has just come to fruition, surrounded by sepia toned edges. Her eyes blend into the gaze of her love, and breath catches.
Memory flares up.
Breathe.
Show the perspective where it belongs.
One last glance towards a hypothesized future. A final lingering before
The song clamors for immediate attention, silenced by an impatient click. Awake. Time to walk through a day in daydream. Time to face the unreality seated within a conflict of identity. Time to face the unreality of the girl that is not hers. Time to face the unreality of understanding.
Sigh.
(So that's for my new book, the first one I'm making for my fibers class at Kutztown.)
Memory slothes across the floor, gripping at the edges of the jagged tiles to pull itself slowly closer. Sara sits atop a precarious desk, stock-still. Mute. She screams out the disaster through her wide eyes. Hands blaze with white blue lashes of bulging veins. Her skin is searing against the cold breath that is steaming up her glasses. Oxygen catches in her sensitive lungs, and suffocation sets in.
Will no one save her?
Awake.
Eyes still closed. Still warm, still shoved underneath the layers of extra heat. No violating glare sifting its way through the thin membranes that protect against unwanted, unnecessary sight. Certain parts are aware enough of other members of the same body; they move together now. Shift. Cocoon deeper. Drift.
Sleep.
No room to move, but there are no qualms. No need for alarm. A simple softness curls its way around Saras torso, and she realizes, she is not alone. She curves her skin, stretches, moves with this new entity. Deity. Lacey hair drifts across open senses, and fingers write melodies that seep into supple creases of humanity. A kiss. Lips search with the intention of new comfort, finding intrigue. To know more is the key.
Know a new way to love.
Fight the rotation of planets and stars.
One more moment.
Drift.
Small hands made to find each other grasp for a stronger hold. Sara smiles. Safe without protection. A fairy tale has just come to fruition, surrounded by sepia toned edges. Her eyes blend into the gaze of her love, and breath catches.
Memory flares up.
Breathe.
Show the perspective where it belongs.
One last glance towards a hypothesized future. A final lingering before
The song clamors for immediate attention, silenced by an impatient click. Awake. Time to walk through a day in daydream. Time to face the unreality seated within a conflict of identity. Time to face the unreality of the girl that is not hers. Time to face the unreality of understanding.
Sigh.
(So that's for my new book, the first one I'm making for my fibers class at Kutztown.)
autumnfade:
Has a nice roll to it