The fade of your voice against my skin is vapor rising in the morning like steam off the brown river and there’s a canyon carved in your pillow slowly filling with amber dawn.
A heavy quilt lay pooled at my feet, displaced from midnight kicks and beaten in folds with the irony of being the only wedding ring in this bed.
The curtain is open and raining light onto these sage walls, almost as if gifting the chlorophyll painted plaster with a prescribed dose of Sunday-Vitamin D.
As I stand to stretch pale skin over stiff muscle, I notice my dress is still on the floor – a puddle of pink silk on the pine boards like discarded cotton candy.
©️ Pearl Bayou 2018