Dew

The light was tangled in his hair, twisted through it in pieces, braiding itself among the tendrils in glowing knots. I love it when he tosses his head to the music, sending light flying from his hair like water droplets, holding my palm outward as if I could catch those bits of light on my fingertips and rub them a crossed my lips that I have just moistened with my tongue

*

And tonight she is alone with the rain. Coming in random dots, ellipses on paper skin while she pedals through an atmosphere heavy in sultry dampness, running its fingertips over her bare neck and exposed thighs, now sticky with sweat and humidity. She is a peach just picked in morning dew, just bitten into. Maybe, she thinks, this is why her bumper scalloped the back end of a utility van today. The music too loud, or she was lost in the deafening beat. She only closed her eyes briefly enough to be a blink, two fingers guiding the steering wheel. Maybe that was why she found herself, alone at the bar accompanied only by a glass of sake, burning down her through either because of the alcohol or because it was so cold, she wasn’t sure. She was only sure of what was in front of her, her journal with dog-eared corners, a set of chopsticks, splintered down the middle and a glass half full of sake, stained by a half moon of red lip gloss. She rubs her thumb a crossed the print because she likes to muss things up, muss, not to be confused with mess. Drips of condensation from the tease of summer roll down the bowl of the glass, over the smeared lip gloss, dripping slow and remorseful like the contemplations on her brain. She runs her fingertips over the wet glass, picking up those droplets and traces her bottom lip.