Her Captured Breeze
The young man stares at silver upon silver, a ceiling, a lack of reflection, a mirror paved with rough texture. Silvery is the voice resting at his side. Something delicate submerged in puddles of esoteric stillness. What words are spoken in dreams beside him? How deep is her fear? He listens and listens...then sandpaper. Now he watches her chest, breasts stretched and relaxed. Shallow arches rising, falling. Her mouth weak and open. Again comes the texture that scrapes his heart. He wants to wake her...(trepidation)...no, he only wants to listen, wanting to be her waves upon the silk shore, be her captured breeze that will not slip from air. A fragment of silence stiffens, and a curled lock of hair slides down her cheek. He hears the slight sound again, and becomes the porcelain that is her face. She exhales, and he chases her breath like the wings of a Monarch Butterfly, escaping the cold where the ice of air can be measured. Just a tickled nerve, a twitch in her throat, moisture or a nano cloud of saliva. He gives himself to the sheets, staring at the haunting ceiling, the rough texture, no reflection, silver upon silver.
Her eyes open to see svelte morning light absorbing into the crystal bowl on her night stand, empty. She looks at her lover in bed, his hand relaxed, holding her inhaler at the frayed edge of her pillow, asleep. Under the window the pretty Monarch pulls towards nectar, a healthy golden rod. In the glory of the warmth, the Monarch doesn’t ponder the cold.