The old priest considered the cast-iron oil pot sitting in the corner of the immaculate kitchen. It was heavy, and his back hurt.
The trees growing on the canyon walls whispered to him. "Prepare
...
[+]
Soft silk sheets slip from my skin.
It’s morning.
It’s mildly unpleasant the way memory of night still lingers
Much like I do now in bed.
The sun’s brilliance wanes.
Cool skin against cream sheets.
At times it crests, welling
Much like the memory of you.
“That doesn’t matter when you're horizontal,” he’d tell me
A pillow tumbles to the floor.
I unravel
Much like the braid in my head.
Fingers tense and release.
I place your echo under covers
And I float to sleep.
It’s morning.
It’s mildly unpleasant the way memory of night still lingers
Much like I do now in bed.
The sun’s brilliance wanes.
Cool skin against cream sheets.
At times it crests, welling
Much like the memory of you.
“That doesn’t matter when you're horizontal,” he’d tell me
A pillow tumbles to the floor.
I unravel
Much like the braid in my head.
Fingers tense and release.
I place your echo under covers
And I float to sleep.