Streams of golden mist weave paths through streets lined by temples of glittering emerald, shining dew.
Orange streaks in the night, blurring into beauty like the smudges of your perfect peach lipstick left on my cheek; they burn
Lavender forests, the richness of damp earth, and your marzipan skin; sweet, sweet, sweet, at the back of my throat.
Part I: Evening Hands held under a blanket, sitting too close together in a crowded room.
She lays her head in a bed of ashes
She leaves the house in the morning, surrounded by the completeness, the simple fullness of summer. And everything is as it should be; the dependable sound of her shoes hitting the path into the woods, the deliberate crunching of stones and dirt underfoot, correspond perfectly to the tightening of the muscles in her legs as she …
It was my eighteenth summer, late in a languid August that was taking its time turning into September. I remember the muggy air, the angry red skin of my friend’s shoulders, the incessant, unrelenting flies that buzzed around us; all signs that this stifling summer was nowhere near ready to surrender. And that evening, before the …
When I was young you told me the sun was the hero in the story of our world:
Me: pale, blurry-eyed, full of fluttering doubt, looking at
It’s raining when I leave my house, half an hour earlier than I need to, and of course it is. I catch myself thinking about how irritating it would be if it were sunny, the world making a mockery of my misery. This way, at least, it gives us an excuse to leave hurriedly, to …