It rained the Friday you tried to capture me with your mechanical eye, and I heard the melody of your laugh bounce off the drops soaking our clothes and quenching the earth under our feet. The fifth day of the week is a kind of holiday to me; some look forward to the ends of years, workdays, months, seasons, the crowning jewel to the church that is a Sunday morning when people gather to be in the presence of their god. But when I strain my eyes into the future I see the window of time I get to let the sound of your voice absorb into my brain again and the light in my eyes is made of the photons that bounced off of you fractions of a second before. I felt time drag me up the stairs and I reach out in hope for Friday- but it was sunny. You're as far off as the clouds that whispered to us seven days before. Sunlight is harsh, and I see you walk away.
My throat is dry. A drought hits heavy, with no mercy, pinching the weeds and worms on the sidewalk who had the courage to pronounce themselves under the October weather with its sunburnt fingers. Weighted hands, I check the weather-
It'll rain friday.
Shes the feeling of a warm scarf hugging your neck in the blistering cold, and the rosy embrace of a bed made like a nest of plush blankets and dotted pillows, her footsteps are her trail of light piercing the static held so tightly in the air like oxygen, breathing in, breathing out, smile like the curve of a riverbank in the shimmering july and eyes that move with the grace of a rising moon, a presence resembling that of the soft red hue of a fire tracing its edges and tapering off into the night sky.
She's the smell of the navy blue void of a winter night and the soft plates of light on your eyelids when you flutter them closed and stand in front of December's terrestrial constellations of Christmas lights, and the feeling of your cheeks pinched by the sapping cold in the air around, but the pure warmth under the layers of jackets, scarves and gloves you stack on just to stand outside and experience the moon's 13 hour reign on the ground you stand, toes curling and ears freezing. She's the welcoming rush of heat and lovely filament glow of lightbulbs when you finally come inside. She's the buzz of tv holiday marathons, kicking off your shoes, and sinking into a hot mug of cocoa.
Looking at her is like shooting nostalgia into your veins, and she's every beautiful cliche.
