He stands, resolute, as though at the head of an army, and before the face of a dragon. Still as a stone, nothing can shake him. Grecian curls never blind his truth-seeking eyes, which contain every storm he’s ever weathered. Like Adam, his finger touches the Lord.
Oil stained, buttoned, except for the top two, the rumpled pink housecoat fit like an old glove in love with bones while she cooked up her signature again, just for me; potato pancakes.
"Ju wan som' Pepsi Cola wit dhat?"
And I didn't have to answer; her cup runneth over.
I hear his laugh, and turn to see a grin spreading on his face like butter melting on toast.
His arms, grasp me, pulling me closer. Feeling safer than I’ve ever felt, tucked away like a tiny kangaroo in its mothers pocket, so warm and soft, so full of love.
Her movement was impeccable and the body itself carved in such a way that people would think Monet came back to life and draw the most perfect human depicted by the eye.
She, the sun rising after a dreadful rainy weather that lasted for one million years.
