Like ice pressed slow against tongue and lip, so close to something like a kiss. Like the broad abandon of a leaf risen in the wind, the reach of feather as the wing brushes back the sky. Her words are caught upon her clever lips, water swallowed just to dream of thirst. The shadows stretch and flutter, the nearing differences, dust mite and dust mote. The grime of living caught glittering in the light.
There is a mark upon her shadow, ink upon her hip. Just enough pause mingled with sway. Just enough glow reaching after ache. These spells she carries in her bones, even gravity stops and stares. The scuff of rough fingers smoothing back her hair. A measure left to guess after steady in her eyes.
If it was up to me, I'd dream of dragons. Comic book sharp and always somehow fourteen. Lost in silly longing for things that never were. Walking backwards towards tomorrow, counting birds and breadcrumbs. Memory a kind of poetry of omission and inflation, read aloud to a crowd of impassive strangers. Dreams of wandering gray empty streets, dark windows and lost dogs. Almost the rain, almost that romance. This sense of kisses lingering, rising with the night.