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The sun drowned in my dreams last night, it sunk into the ocean’s ink, into the ashes – leftovers of a post-wintry sunset. Fires, stronger than the union between hydrogen and oxygen, erased the contours of the sunlight and left only indigo veils and bitterness. The rays of flamingo elegance escaped under the ugly granules of smoke and then the moon appeared, frigid mistress of the night, with a sterling beauty blinding the stars, spreading light on the wings of ice and whispers slipping on the edge of silver daggers forever lost.

I woke up just before the beginning of the hurricane meant to demolish the silence in the skyscrapers lined like soldiers, saluting dead palm trees. The grieve had kept the sounds a hostage in the nightmare, the whimsical universe where Lady Moon abducted the charm in the adagio music had taken all my strength; and despite the summer streaming in my imagination, despite the warm, amber skin of the man sleeping next to me, it felt cold, Siberian cold.

I tried to hold to the masculine scent that charmed me in the first place, I wanted him to know how scared I was, how tragic would be if my dreams came true; but he wasn’t next to me because of the ability to talk and listen and as soon as I realized that he wouldn’t understand why I care so much about the sun, I sneaked out of bed and followed the black marble to the kitchen, looking for my Parker pen and a cup of coffee, thinking how lucky are some people to have a cat to snuggle next to.

The radio in the kitchen was still on from the night before and there was an Italian song playing. I couldn’t make a word out of the lyrics, but I liked the music, perfect for a drive around the city, someone else’s city. Somewhere where the majestic, oak trees will drift in the rhythm of the melody and the Spanish moss will swirl around like the silk edges of a ball gown; where words could be made out of pearls and breeze, pure poetry and smiles; where the moon will no longer look tired and intoxicated, but only in love with the gorgeous land of Flowers, even if the flowers are the last survived, turning slowly into burning candles …

The last to survive ...

The last to survive …

©2013, B. T., All rights reserved