intoslowmo
And you held that heated glass to my lips, and that fire scorched my throat so hard I thought I might burst. Your head, a pilow. The stars, our sunset. In time I suspect you might just come back to wrap me up, carry me down in those arms that smell of grain whiskey -- sharp as fire, raw, and real.
i could hear the kettle whistling while you took your habitual afternoon shower. just beyond the door i could smell the scent of your body wash and perfume -- old kinds, the kinds of your grandmother, like lilacs and honeysuckle-- and crept inside just a few feet to feel the heat rising from the tub, from the white laced bathroom in which you stood beneath waterfalls of heated water, calm. like a hillside sunset, you capture me.
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