hearshot-kiddisaster
Bluelighter
In the spring, amid the tall grass, the swamp grass, on the outskirts of a wood, he takes her paint smeared fingers; sepia, crimson, vermilion on ivory white pallette and presses each one to the curl of his mouth, sucking and biting and longing for sustenance from the ochre, copper, violet tinge streaking her silver veined hands; and she will smile with eyes that match the sky and give him all her strength.
In the summer under green leaves, she laces flowers in her hair and dances across the umber of the forest floor, braids and ribbons streaming. And he watches with folded arms, flicking ash idly dreamily, until she twirls her way to him and collapses against his chest in a flurry of flesh and chiffon; and he will bless her graces with kisses of wonder.
In the autumn by the dirt path on the leaf strewn ground, he plucks the last of the deep indigo blackberries from the brambles and places them softly in her open mouth, on her expectant tongue. When the wind begins to blow too cold, he will wrap her in his embrace, and when he slips her dark stained tongue in his mouth she will taste sweet yet bitter.
In the winter, in the white fields by the ice guarded cliffs he will leave her. Mystified with snowflakes caught in her hair, she will turn touching her paint stained hands furiously to her heart. Her hot breath will swirl like whisps of smoke, and through her freezing tears she will meet his lips once more with a hard and fast futility
Years later he will remember the taste of blackberries on warm lips, the way paint-stained fingers pressed against his flesh, the motions of a lover who twirled ribbons flying across summer fields with flowers in her hair. And she will haunt him always with a ghost for every season.
In the summer under green leaves, she laces flowers in her hair and dances across the umber of the forest floor, braids and ribbons streaming. And he watches with folded arms, flicking ash idly dreamily, until she twirls her way to him and collapses against his chest in a flurry of flesh and chiffon; and he will bless her graces with kisses of wonder.
In the autumn by the dirt path on the leaf strewn ground, he plucks the last of the deep indigo blackberries from the brambles and places them softly in her open mouth, on her expectant tongue. When the wind begins to blow too cold, he will wrap her in his embrace, and when he slips her dark stained tongue in his mouth she will taste sweet yet bitter.
In the winter, in the white fields by the ice guarded cliffs he will leave her. Mystified with snowflakes caught in her hair, she will turn touching her paint stained hands furiously to her heart. Her hot breath will swirl like whisps of smoke, and through her freezing tears she will meet his lips once more with a hard and fast futility
Years later he will remember the taste of blackberries on warm lips, the way paint-stained fingers pressed against his flesh, the motions of a lover who twirled ribbons flying across summer fields with flowers in her hair. And she will haunt him always with a ghost for every season.
