She greets you with her warm, terra cotta smile and parisian blue eyes.
A cinematic journey.
We didn't need a story, we didn't need a real world. We just had to keep walking and we became the stories. We became the places. We were the lights, the deserts, the faraway worlds.
Upon the golden shoots we rise, like gossamer creeping o'er the gate.
I open my eyes. I melt. Into the eternal night. A spark. You got me out of the darkness. You gathered me up from earth. You've brought me back to life.
I see you swinging from the bough, legs pendulous like a string.
You carved me out of shapeless stone, gilded me with light and gold. Kissed my marble brow and bone until no longer I was cold.
On the foolish arm of Icaras you glide along the sea, climbing higher and ever higher to our Migratory V.
The legendary love story of the Taj Mahal.
Sweet conversation flowed like the wines of Chianti.
What tide is this that pours over me, ink spilt from its quill, blotting my page - Cool is the flow, vapid as it mocks me, blurring the words that pained me to write.