(no subject)
I was just bony hands as cold as a winter pole. You held a warm stone out new flowing blood to hold. Oh what a contrast you were to the brutes in the halls. My timid young fingers held a decent animal. Over the ramparts you tossed the scent of your skin and some foreign flowers. Tied to a brick. Sweet as a song. The years have been short but the days were long. Cool of a temperate breeze from dark skies to wet grass. We fell in a field it seems now a thousand summers passed. When our kite lines first crossed. We tied them into knots and to finally fly apart we had to cut them off. Since then it's been a book you read in reverse so you understand less as the pages turn or a movie so crass and awkardly cast that even I could be the star. I don't look back much as a rule and all this way before murder was cool but your memory is here and I'd like it to stay. Warm light on a winter day. Over the ramparts you tossed the scent of your skin and some foreign flowers. Tied to a brick. Sweet as a song. The years have been short but the days go slowly by two loose kites falling from the sky drawn to the ground and an end to flight.