Call upon the mists of ocean spray
of the rolling tides on rice of shore
thickening caramel dust lay upon your treasures ; crisp mountain air captured in a bottle
brought me the beach in a syrupy maple leaf ; that of which she called pine needle
dreamt of stories tainting youth ; evermore satisfied
the complexion of her pale face
fair as the cream of the moon
words like scalding hot chocolate against your soft tongue
oddity of her copper curls running to catch the mist aside
stained with the harshness of hail, softness of snow
chest of oil paint streaked along her collarbone
tufts of crusty eyes from the sleepless nights
pastel, weathered by age
color of three drops of blue food coloring in a bucket of ice
rainclouds moving to the high cheekbones, jawline
at the midst of twilight,
the monsters in her head hidden in the caves
three weeks ago
she brought the city of years in her intricate little mirror
shattered
from her slippery cold hands,
vanished in swirls and
New York City mysteriously disappeared from all the maps.
mapmaker, afraid of the stories hidden in the luggage.
