Now there’s talk of militarizing the moon. Stripping away whatever purity is left, maybe we are all just broken angels with busted wings. Or maybe all of the angels have come and gone, the devils live here now.
It feels like one of those quiet afternoons in July that drip molasses and honey from rustic windowsills of brick and barrel. Breadcrumb trails and leftover cheese line the crevices like pixie dust and pirate hooks. My hair is sticking to my balmy lips; a light wind cradles the vineyard hills – a mother and a womb of grapes of purple and black.
It was a slow drip, the way he made love to me. Exhaling sighs into my bones, letting fire mix with marrow. His fingers pulsed into my skin, and I could feel his heart beat under the blue rivers of his wrist. I let him seep into me. The smell of his evening shower, and the grizzly needles along his jawline dotting Braille along my shoulder blades.
It hit me hard. Hearing that you were engaged to someone else. I still have that diamond ring you had given me five years ago. In that little black box – I keep it in a brown paper bag on the top shelf in my closet. But that’s not really the point here. In some ways, it feels like another lifetime. And in others, I am back on that high school dance floor, the last song of the night, and I am letting you kiss me. Warm and thrilling.