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.
The sun was shining bright beams this morning. Carried in the hands of a cobalt sky. Apollonian lanterns giving way to the death of night. I stepped into the shower and let the warmth envelop me. Under turquoise tiles, my toes crinkled and I felt my eyes close. And then it was happening all over again. The remembering.
Like sungrown nectar, it ripples sweetness across the roof of my mouth. It is no longer a distant memory, but one that loops like the 90 passing suns in front of my film reel lashes. I see porch light stars and know the beauty in salt and sweat on skin under crescent moons. Letting it burrow into your marrow and giving yourself wholly to to another until our veins run with melted colors of vibrancy and zealous infernos.