A Midnight Passage
Often I get swept away by scenes that just asked to be imagined. Most late at night when I try to sleep. This was a passage I wrote from one of those times.
They met at the graveyard.
Both picking daisies from cracks between the concrete slabs. Their eyes never met and lips never parted to speak. Slowly they unfolded. He hid his fear and meekness in the shadow of his collar, and she bore her father’s anger in the ring she wore on the finger for pluto. Above the warm leaves, the air was painted with stars and blue. Her eyelids bore the same pattern. His thumb washed past the sky and she kept her eyes closed to keep night upon them. If she raised either lid, gold would rain on them both and they could no longer hold onto the children in their shoes and be romanced among a ghosts symphony of lullabies. There was so much heaviness in their staying. So much weight in lips to fingers, so much weight from their soles to the ground. Words softly dripped from their tongues as the dew collected around them in waking grass.
