Gossamer

I woke up in cold sweat knowing that Spring is nearly out of our hands, so here is something to remember it by...

the gossamer of spring's dreams

The first cry of Spring is a canopy of brilliance. The sky is studded with tears and diamonds while the clouds dance languidly amongst the throes of blues.

Blossoms and petals fall to her wrists and braid into the strands of her hair, the springtime wind kisses her jaw and whispers into her ears.

Her hair turns sunshine to gold, and her tongue weaves words into flowers.

Dancing blossoms upon her toes; the tree branches that were feathered by starlight melt away.

And somewhere beyond the spring sky's reflection, is a cherished sweet blame of the sunrise on her lips.

In Spring, she takes every space in the cavity of my chest.

My limbs lay loose and serene, my mind settling into tranquility. I blink against the sunlight, and glance at every soft petal drifting down, feel my tongue and teeth sculpt meaningless hum into nonsense jest.

Made for this burgeoning Spring, for the tender caress of the wind and gossamer dreams.

A deeper season than any reason, it must be her name. 

Her name, her name, her name.

The shape of her name never quite fit in my mouth; too delicate, too frail—the same way the stars would fall for her today.