Snippet

Fingers sifting through the grass in the dark.
Gentle breezes stirring the scent of your hair.
Lights far-off; dreamlike.
Goosebumps crawling over my skin.

Knees bent, feet curled underneath.
A book propped up in my lap.
Dark hair growing hot with sunshine,
laughter washing away with river water.

Gasps, rigid burning in my chest.
Blood rocketing through my body,
pulsing with life and pain and victory.
Unfinished, cliff-hanger, uncharted territory.

Printed words, characters painted elegantly, everywhere.
The smell of dust, oils, faded leathers, yellowing pages.
Heavy curtains, glass windows, mahogany.
Antique, paper and quill, ink splotches on creamy skin.
Enchanting?
My library.

Random thoughts on a Tuesday night, right before spring erupts, engulfing everything (even coveted smiles). Winter will melt and the cold will disappear, and the naivete will be back. Summer will mold me and I will resist until fall. Pain will engulf me as winter sets in again; a desolate kind of beautiful; a tortured shade of lovely. But then Spring is resilient, while my greater love, Autumn, is a bittersweet preview that ends too quickly (too beautiful to last, too perfect to exist).

Amanda