I’ll run out of breath blowing on each page, trying to get this ink to dry before the water rises enough to wash it away.
Oh, but the small puddle is up to my knees now.
My feet are lost to the burnt olive depths. Still the question burns me.
Which tale shall be told?
The sun creeps from behind,
and the water splashes promise of victory. Still, these cracked fingers tremble in the presence of the ink alone.

A man journeys a dried land.
His gaze doesn’t touch the scorched brush littered about parched earth.
His sight stays fixed upon the meddling blood orange sky rising
into its ascended blue counterpart,
as it’s flickered into lilac wisps.
His heart kicks with each cloud that grows cold
as it departs from its fiery brethren. Drifting off to violet,
to indigo,
to obsidian oblivion.

When the first drop touched the page,
her momentum was stopped by the sagging glass.
The dancing flares of the steel star just out of reach all those years away.
The heats turned the glass soft.
Her fingers push through the barrier.
She’ll watch them melt,
reaching ever close to the light just too far away.

As the ink washes away in the seas,
I see the sun eclipsed behind my head.
Its gilded ring illuminates the mustard yellowed waters.
The pages become lost
in the reflection of what was left of our take.
© All Rights Reserved