Smoke.

Under the rice lanterns on a bed of un opened mail and a sea breeze whispering in my ear. All these seasons driving back and forth. From one town to another, sleeping in the city lights. Up against the brick wall with your smoke in my hair. This will be running through my dreams at night, full moon, a blood red sun. All the signs to point back at it. When we dug our heels in. All of the seasons. Out in the garden with the sun or stars, the shadows of the palms.

.

Will I ever be kissed in the sun again, will my freckles touch yours, will my salt turn to rust.

Summer.

Once, in summer, the day lit up like sparks and coloured dust. I put my palms out to soak it up. We move like watercolours through the lake.

 

clairemossong-polaroid

A white cotton dress

Shrug it off and on the floor we watch our dreams writhe, with agony and wild in their eyes. A crystal ball of what could be and what isn't, because here and now we breathe. Empty signs and tram lines to nowhere in particular. Separate or the same car. Wooden floors chipped away. Flowers for the whole summer. A white cotton dress caught in the sunlight.  On a crisp morning you'll bring me coffee in the garden but still, a waterfall of tears when you slipped that one out. Quiet lamplight beside our bed. I'm sorry if I wake you. Leaving breadcrumbs out for you to follow. Pinning stars into your dreams so when you sleep tonight and every night. You'll know just what to fall into.