She exchanges her cloak for the darkness, her dark dress. In it her dark skin disappears between my moonlight fingers. If she closes her eyes she is gone, I am alone.
Am I dreaming her, or is she dreaming me? I wake so silence will not answer. This is existence.
Columbine. Trailing wisteria, its scent our barefoot progress. Its feelers tangled in our hair, alive with us. Youth unfolding was our garden, a world hatched for pleasure from the mind.
Paradise remembers those who loved there. I will find you in flowers.
Bio: Verity wants her guns back. She said you could borrow the Cuisinart, not the firearms. She’s pissed off.