The Wrestle, XI
Don’t polish it for me
At the end of every kiss there’s a war
And I know
She’s got fangs like mine.
The grass would be heavy with dew in the morning as the sun began its slow, stretching awakening. The droplets would glow and dance with bits of morning trapped in each orb, would be heavy on feet that walked through it, would drip from edges when it got too full of itself and forgot of its precarious positions within the universe. The world itself, was laden, was encumbered, was burdened by the very weight of her sighs, or so Clarke seemed to think, becoming innately apologetic for them as they displaced dew outside. They were the dew drops upon the pillows, upon the sheets, and they covered her in her sleepless nights and aching joints.