muarakami in pastels

there are times when, and you must know this, that your spirit rises up like mercury. silver shot and liquid and your word weave fits so perfectly into our waking dreams that acquiescence to your sprite like soul is the only affordable mode of being.

softly, softly, catchee monkey.

down past the golden dunes where the surf meets the fantasy of your piquant prose i tumble meekly into the milky void.
pure.
pristine.
where the white winds whip passionate droplets of emotion like snowflakes taken and enlarged from screen size zero to screen size seventeen ten zero zero by seventeen ten zero zero.

snowflakes in brittle spring sun.
snowdrops in bitter winter winds.

you compose your magic out of sinuous cobwebs titanium spun but with the fragile feel and look of rice paper. a captivating concoction that leans upon the rickety crutch of realism as it bends our thoughts like malleable plasticine into a lantern lit frame.
like vapour trails that look as though they were made of chromium but in reality are fragile lace.

shadow dancing on silk curtains.

an epiphany of you.

for a fistful of your imagination i would cast my soul into the void.
to follow in your footfall is an impossible task as the road they take leads us into the heart of the sun and beyond and i am but a hollow icarus.

a shallow shadow in the pastel shades of you.