Melting.

I've had such nostalgia lately. Incidence one: Phone calls from humid, peach-scented air reached me right when I needed them. Intuition, you know? You always liked surprises. I woke up to poetic messages again, I missed that. I missed hearing about canvases and oil paints. Incidence two: Familiar scents, drawn out hugs. You've let yourself shrink so thin. I felt my fingertips on your ribs, your cheeks are sinking in.
It was great seeing you.

But most recently, I'm feeling yellow. I’m eager to press down the veins on the back of your hands. They remind me of springs; spring veins. I fused myself to dark leather while you skimmed through artist titles, but I didn't read any of it. I was lost in cloudless skies reflecting in the monitor. There’s moss about this oaky scene, the roads are wet, the streetlights flicker, the wind blows backward. I’m trying to be upbeat, does it falter in my writing? A sheer side landscape, long forgotten places. Glossy dross, broken green. Your faux eyes, kaleidoscope face, send me back to tangled dreams of long forgotten pretty things. I’m pining for cornflower blue, for yellow skylines. I'm thirsty for humid air. I'm melting to heated pavement. Get me out of these silk stockings, I’m ready for bare legs and freckled toes.