We are letting these be the slow days. Slow like droplets puddling gently at the bottom of an icy cup... like the veil of a sheer curtain billowing from a slow summer breeze. Slow like eyelids after nap where you sweat while moving every so gently from one side to the other. Slow like the breeze you can almost put your arms around, a low force of air and movement and summer... so full you can almost touch. So full that if you close your eyes you can hop on and get carried away to Autumn.
These days are slow and hot... like rolled up tee shirt sleeves and lingering in front of mirrors... just because. Slow like finger tips tracing curves, leaving cool touches on hot skin... hot like snuggles against sweat... the heat of nightmares needing to be cooled. The days are slow like lazily sneaking ice cream from the freezer... grabbing stolen bites while trying to fit your whole head in the icy cold chamber of relief.
Slow like diving under ice cold Atlantic water... time slows... the arc of your body falls... and every inch of your skin feels the cold water stun like ice cubes being massaged into your being. Slow like shadows and uninvited company lingering at your doorstep. Slow like Sunday afternoons, and two in the morning. Slow and full... these summer days.
**This was written from a prompt given by Isabel Abbott and her 27 days of creative burn...
These days are slow and hot... like rolled up tee shirt sleeves and lingering in front of mirrors... just because. Slow like finger tips tracing curves, leaving cool touches on hot skin... hot like snuggles against sweat... the heat of nightmares needing to be cooled. The days are slow like lazily sneaking ice cream from the freezer... grabbing stolen bites while trying to fit your whole head in the icy cold chamber of relief.
Slow like diving under ice cold Atlantic water... time slows... the arc of your body falls... and every inch of your skin feels the cold water stun like ice cubes being massaged into your being. Slow like shadows and uninvited company lingering at your doorstep. Slow like Sunday afternoons, and two in the morning. Slow and full... these summer days.
**This was written from a prompt given by Isabel Abbott and her 27 days of creative burn...