Ages ago...

Cinematic Moment:  Years of prose.

It's only been a handful of years that the night seemed to open up like a hole drilled into the black cancerous mouth of a cavern, exposing the pink spongy flesh of morning.  What was once heavy and uncertain, has the playful banter of a dozen balloons, allowing themselves to fly with whatever breeze comes along, but always remaining tied together.  We sit around in wrinkled cream sheets, rubbing our feet together to remind the other we are still there.  Palm to palm, eating cookies with chunks of powdery chocolate and drinking plastic cups filled with ice cold milk.  We sing our words most of the time.

And we watch the seasons change out the window, while our own faces slowly change from young to slightly impressed with the lines of late night expressions.  I never grew afraid of smiling more wrinkles into mine.  Gone are the days when I tried to scrub them away, like some sort of stain.  The candlelight bounces off the moss colored walls, gloss paint singing back to the flame.  The light continues to catch on a guitar with hardware the color of an Italian gold bracelet my grandmother gave me for my 15th birthday.  The dogs nuzzle as close as they can get.  I study the pattern of his facial hair, how it grows in singularly and coarse, black in some areas and a deep auburn just below the bottom lip.  I listen to breath pacing itself, slowing down from man to beast to ozone.  Listening to the heartbeats of all living things come to a lull.

  

And I sneak across the kitchen for a glass of water, silently laughing at our luck in this lifetime.