a prismatic fall into the mouth of time

Ballet slippers take timid steps across ardent ground as the limitless stretch of the trees brush against the plains of sky. The freshly identified sycamore is alone but reaching, petitioned by the clouds. Unkept meadows of annual rye grass roll out, reclined and soft like the Venus of Urbino.

It’s the hottest day of the year: heat embraces damp skin, and we to each other. Dark raven hair is sweat-slickened and curling at the nape for an entire broiling hour. There is no traceable ending to the flesh, and within, apprehensive hearts beat with quickening stride. Onwards then to completion, where humid breaths live within a shared mouth in a fevered, urgent rhythm. We fuck beyond the setting of the sun. The hours never seem to bend, and a haze obscures the path spanning ahead in a certain endlessness. It’s a psychedelic heat, distorted and sonic.

The late afternoon sunlight trembles without haste towards soft darkness. The bursts of ageing tree leaves shudder against the wasting balminess of the air. These are wonderfully mindless hours, and so I take my time with them.