My hair disheveled in the sunlight.
Sound of Chopin in the walls a susurration of hummingbird wings.
Flight of fancy.
Figurative.
Literal.
Light on the face of the moon.
Light in the eye of the blue storm.
Revery.
Summer grass.
Uncut, thick, lush, warm from sunlight.
Kisses like thunder building behind storm clouds.
July skies.
Pressing down.
Burdened with the knowledge of connection.
I sabotage myself.
Cherry flesh on my tongue.
Swallow the pit.
I always swallow the pit.
There in the spot of my stomach.
A fluttering.
And the light slanted down across the road and I am on his motorcycle.
A child.
Girl child.
Wild haired and windblown.
Sitting in front of my father on his motorcycle.
He steers with one arm wrapped around my waist and the other on the handlebar.
We fly like blown dander.
The flotsam and jetsam of cotton tree bloom thick in the air.
The slant of sun.
The press of sky.
The road unfurled underneath the wheels.
This moment.
Always.
Golden.
Memory like a savage at my throat.
Kissed me mercilessly.
Devouring every good intention.
Sentimental journey of devotion to the shrine of the past perfect father.
Welling sorrow on my face.
Heart, as per usual, on my sleeve.
Parting such sweet sorrow.
Abyss of longing.
Flying into that darknight.
The rush of falling only to be caught and pressed back and still and held.
There.
That undoing.
Stars flung out, scattershot like dust motes.
Freckled love on the bridge of my nose.
Asunder.
Lovelorn.
Forlorn.
Trampled by my own heart.
Fledgling girl.
Wet winged with love.
Fly away.
Into that sea of fireflies.
There, in the high grass.
Burgeoning.
Slender necks of snapdragon flowers.
Sweet coral pink and pale creamsicle throats.
The thumb of Eros pressed against the padded
Softness of my tender mouth.
Kisslet.
Kissling.
Kissed foundling.
Buried in the pillow of my cheek.
And.
Just.
There.
In tousled gold.
The sun spray on your face.
And.
The barely soft whispering word.
My longing to be heard.
Auntiebubba 