Dreams
fitful, fantastic
woke me from sleep
smiling, laughing
looking across canyons
to find her perfectly-shut eyelids
looking out the window
to find masked creatures of the night.
I tugged at the corner of the duvet
shivering
but enjoying the sweet banana breeze.
Fingers sticky from the fresh figs they had bought at the market, he eyed the swing set on the playground with childish glee. She caught his glance and smiled as he raced past the playscape bridge towards the empty swing.
At first, he was hesitant — the chains that supported the seat seemed flimsy, made for a small child and not a 200-pound grown man. With her encouragement, he discarded his hesitation, climbed on, dug his feet into the sand, and pushed off.
To his left, he noticed that she had joined him, swinging higher than he dared to go, laughing as the wind ruffled the folds of her sundress. He stole secret peeks at her smiling face each time their swinging arcs crossed.
Across the square, a tourist pointed a camera towards the swinging pair in an impromptu photoshoot.
They continued swinging. And he was happy.
Is it raining where you are?
Are the drops tiptoeing across the palm of your hand, finding solace in the crevices of your finger joints?
Are the beadlets tickling the tip of your nose, then snaking down the maze of freckles upon your cheek?
Is the dampness filling the cracks of your lips, then gently flooding your mouth to settle on the top of your tongue?
Is the downpour soaking your fiery hair, leaving red strands dancing upon the face of your forehead?
Are the raindrops running rampant upon your skin, wrapping you in warm touches making you smile and sigh and leaving you in rapture in a way that I never could?
In a way that you would never let me?
Is it raining where you are?
Because I am standing here alone, parched, waiting for any glimpse of moisture to quench this dryness upon my skin that is leaving me thirsty.
