A woman with an auburn mane that’s swept across either shoulder. Amber-tinted eyes, glistening in the Sun.
Fingernails all a shade of gold, and lips as full as mine. She walks, draped in a fabric of divine design, and even this clings to the nape of her neck, so as to hold her there forever… so as to lay claim to perfection. This voice, rising from her throat, so sweet, like the aroma of a peach cobbler, up from the oven and wafting past the nostrils of a starving hound.
I would be that hound. With each step she takes, there’s this very subtle bounce… as natural as the tall trees swaying in the wind, yet as striking as the heron come to prey. She walks away from me, and I notice her head shakes with such rhythm, as if to say “Yes, I am what I appear to be, and what a plague it is upon my spirit; I will never know rest.” And what mistaking is there in her presence? So fine is she.
But again, in reference to this voice. To this melody. Unlike the words themselves, the message flows forth not from her mouth, but from her eyes… The sound beginning in her throat, passing through those full, healthy lips, and resonating in those eyes that make me want to hold her so tight, and for so long. So many emotions burrowing deeper into my chest.
I am the epitome of chaos, amidst the easiness that is you, Dawn. You rise so faithfully. You fall so solemnly.
The Old Ones worshiped at your feet and still, today, even I am caught up in all that is you. You kissed my back and sent me along.