2.13.2016
Elizabeth Winkler
You’ll be beside me, an arm round my waist, your body pressed against mine. Our fingers will touch, for a moment, by chance, then you’ll lay claim to my hands, fingers sliding down mine, subliming the ice in my fingertips. Your head on my shoulder, my cheek on your hair, I want to breathe nothing but you. Comets will blaze flaming trails through the sky, rooftop waltzes’ silent accompaniment. Time will politely refuse to progress, its new pendulum our intertwined hands. Two roses will bloom in a rainstorm on the edge of our favorite path, and, seeing each other in one of the blooms, we’ll pause, pick the flowers, matching stems tucked away between ears and bedraggled, wet hair. I dream of clichés as rain pounds on the roof and as the fire’s caress warms my skin, I close my eyes and lean into you.
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