mybreathingselfagain

The cymbidium at the pane, long green stems paint mossy lines against the window, tapered tips writing letters home. It feels forever August here inside, safe from the last leaves, the raccoon with his electric fingers white in the cold, the chickadee pulled almost inside himself. And you here, in the sea-sheet bed with your name drawn across the headboard in chalk white, your hands singing memories in the condensation. You feel like summer, feel like skin on sand, trapped plumeria on the watered drive, you feel like summer in mid-January rain.