Day 4: Morning

Morning

Each hair stands solo; frail and yet full of prickly energy as though new spring cress shoots poking through dry battered earth.  They glimmer in such soft hazing dawn sunlight, sensing its warmth and seeming to stretch towards it.

I let my breath gently coax the fair covering of hairs upon the flesh of her upper arm into being and watch whilst each individual follicle sprung upward to catch the breeze.

I place my fingertips, pulsating wildly, upon her tender skin and let them trace her blemishes and freckles like wayward children joining the dots.  Her body squirmed slightly and recoils at the touching.  She stretches out her limbs as her mind finds itself in that warming harmless place between consciousness and sleep.

The wooden slats of blind rattle in a dying breeze reminding me of willow branches dancing together along the banks of meadow rivers meandering away far in the distance.   We had spent the day there yesterday, doing as we had done in childhood, dangling our legs in muddied waters and allowing the trees’ great spindly fingers to fall on our heads like wild dreadlocks.

I had first felt the softness of her lips then as small fish had nibbled and kissed our bare feet.

She smiled, her toes flexed amongst the bed-sheets and, without even opening her mascara-smudged eyes, her hand reached out for me to find the nape of my neck.  Her fingers traced my bony shoulder-blade and reached to cup the back of my head.  She slipped her fingers through my messy boyish crop and tightened her clasp once they had a firm grip of its tousled strands .  With purpose she moved me towards her.

“Morning”.

 

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