Fields of Fantasy

It's nearly impossible To capture the hazy glow of summer here

And its' microcosm Where time means less Even as it overstays Its' welcome into autumn

To bottle it would be to waste it But to relive it? only as a shadow of what it was

We drink and we dance And we pray and give in As completely as we can It's all we can do

kiss my forehead gently

Rest your hand on my head

I want to breathe the smell of your shirt on my cheek, lay my gaze unto yours

And let the seconds seep into the graces of endless time

satiated and sweet, two lovers in bed

reading books on each others shoulder, and stealing glances in between 

soft black eyes dilating in the dim light

I am no good with words. I’m not! I write so much yet I say so very little. What good are words if they lack meaning? what good is language if not to talk, to reach out - to touch one’s soul with yours? I crave the intimacy of well written prose - where hyphens punctuate each tactful line, and the orthographic outlines so vividly invite sensation to be felt. even now, I say the same things twice; each with merely a shadow of its intent!

To live on a little cliff, the mountains and the waters rarely out of sight. To teach important little things in important little towns, to walk home clutching dandelions in the spring, to smile warmly at every stranger passing by. 

To climb callused feet up a mossy cliff until they’re even with the very edge of the world, the edge where the sun meets infinity. To feel impossibly small in this vast bigness, to feel as though every callus every mark every bruise, scratch, step and scuff matters. 

To stare out into the stillness, to stare out until time no longer matters- until tears trickle down your gentle face, until no tears are left. Until it is just you and the scraggy cliff and the spongy moss between your toes.