Somewhere in the depths of my rib cage a violin whines. I feel the breath of your hands against my skin as we relinquish ourselves to the consolations of a crisp, starlit sky. The desert energy quiets and we layer our thoughts with simplicities. I think in black and white – that picture of you. The one where you’re smiling with your hardened gaze and building tiny empires of aspirations with your eyes.
So still. So pertinent. That photograph. Somehow I’ve managed to capture your soul: frozen, fleeting, and free. I think I should destroy the image; a soul unfettered.
My reflections answer back to you as you tuck me in closer to your body. Your fingertips graze my spirit and we breathe. In and out. In. Out. The violin in my chest serenades the now rising moon. A shooting star descends its abyss a bit longer than usual and slower than ordinary. Encapsulated with comfort, I don’t make a wish. After all, we are just standing on a principle.
© /skin/ /ˈpōətrē/