| i swear by all flowers. |
[30 Aug 2004|11:58pm] |
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mood |
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 contemplative |
] |
| [ |
music |
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radiohead: fake plastic trees. |
] |
Lúthien closely examines the time-worn cracks and fissures in the wall of her home (the word resonates for her--the world is her home when he is near); the rounded corners that can not be called corners and the vines that thread hungrily over the soft limestone. A small rain of pebbles patters its way to her feet. Toes burrow into high, damp grass. Thumbs flutter over her palms and quiet, aware of the streak left in the faint dust.
She can't help but wonder if, walking under the naked sky, she is churning through time's own dusty corner.
This sentinels change--anymore as if it were a stone angel standing watch over a garden of dandelion-clocks in a tornado. It's a confession and happily, joyfully, we are caught with our bare, windburnt arms. I want to sink my skin into rain puddles and paint sunflowers until they condense into the clouds.
And dragging her fingers across the delicate planes of her face, over the short wisps of hair that clings halfheartedly to her forehead; she is brought indefinitely into her past.
Still the hallmarks of all that was. With the signposts of what is. And the hope of what will be. It is, for her, an exquisite thrill.
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