When we know it turns cold...

So this is love.

As a glass, round and clear, casting it's burgundy glow upon idle hands. With eyes shut, the scent alone is overwhelming. Recalling moments and memories, touches, in all shapes and pressures.

Then there is the first sip. Lips part, internal exposed and warm, taken aback as the experience goes asunder. Subtle as smoke, enticing, with the promise of more.

More is full and rich. Liquid awash, all senses held captive. Reason and order, missing, for that cherished fraction of bliss. And woe be gone days. Ophelia sang in the right key.

Without reason or cause, the fading begins. You chase the memory down. Attempt to repeat repeat repeat. Miss steps. Internally stumbling with two left feet. Chasing down the ideal through memory glow. Cheetah like, pawing at the prize.

It hits the stomach. No longer under conscious control. Away from hands and eyes. But the sensation still lingers on the tongue. The follow through. It fades in beautiful ways. Heart snappingly so.

We appreciate the haze. Knowing sober, all too sober, rests around the bend.

We shake it all off. Rinse free the glasses, they rest clear with white light singing through the curve, empty again.

Courage v. reason. Take it up again.

LimeLight

She stood on stage and took a bow. She watched the shadows fall. The seats were filled with faceless faces. And not a soul at all.

She stood on stage and curtsied low. Her foot slid across the floor. White tights, white shoes, a golden strap. Her sole filled with blood.

She stood on stage and twirled round. Ringlets caught the flair. And with such poise, such grace, such flow... she remembered backstage, naught was there.