Touching Her, You Wonder How She Holds All Of Midday Sunshine In Her Skin, How Light Touches Her Like

touching her, you wonder how she holds all of midday sunshine in her skin, how light touches her like she's something made for it, like she's something high and empyreal like an aureate glow bouncing off the cloudscapes she dreams of. she speaks of the cottoned sky like a homesick child, and it is in that I find kinship. her eyes shine like that cottoned sky put through a spinning prism. she's held me since first knowing her, with a thousand apologies already in her comfort, yet before I'd even spoke aloud what ailed me. It's strange to wonder if she sees me -- pale, sorry me, lost and absent in the sea -- from her warm dream. I hope to be a part of that warm dream.