"There is more of her than she imagines." - Jesse Bernstein
The sky, above sparse dissipate clouds in the horizon, was warmer than the earth. The moon was smirking behind a mountain and in its absence the midnight spilled open and drooled burgandy in pools over the blue eucalyptus oil in leathery folds. Down in the street, however, the trees were escaping into the warm sky with their splintered trunks, leaving the air about the ground dry and cruel. My nose flinched, bleeding without fluid in the nettle cold.
She was spinning herself around a street sign, an echo rattling through the hollow steel pole as her palm stuck to the metal and snapped free. She giggled as if she had never grown up, never even seen the shit over which she had been a hunched and quivering wreck hours before. I felt a twinge of guilt for being amused by the irony but smiled peacefully at her, letting her current terrestrial joy superimpose itself on my own soul, a drop of emerald syrup in the pool of my unmuddied pain. I laughed loudly enough to embarass myself in the neighborhood night and ran to hold her hair away from her face and kiss her forehead: my lips popped loudly on the gentle velvet of her skin.
I turned to the trees again and she had forced them to be charitable, and the houses and the cracked concrete as well, for now everything within our reach was coated in a glowing dew and the air was thick with water. The nubile mist exploded the yellow streetlights into small copies of the sun. We layed on our backs in the street and laughed like children at the spoiled sky.
Back.