* FIREFLY.

Rooftop dreams.  Skylight purpling under fingernails.  The smell of rain suckling the moss, deep and dark and cloying.  There’s something magical about forests heavy with cloud. Something about the green, about the bird calls,  about the swelling balloon hearts. The invincibility of it all. The way leaping from tree to tree – from cloud to cloud – from dream to dream – almost seems like a possibility. In this space between laughter, loss is just a word. Pain has no tears tied to it. Hurt is a rabbit scampering through the trees, and I trip over the roots chasing after it. In this space between clasped hands, nothing matters but the now. See – in my dreams I am always falling, but right now –   right now  I   am     not.

Almost shyly, the summoner takes his jaw. She leads it upward from where he kneels, leaning down with fluidity and grace. Vibrant warmth meets cold lips. A flurry of rainbow-inspired colours dance across her mouth, splashing onto her tongue like freezing cherry soda on a sweltering day.

we wear lipstick stains like battle scars, like trophies, like they prove someone loved us.

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