Warm wax, warm light
unscented, soft flames.
Still air, crickets and night creatures;
We’re winding down they’re coming alive.
Indigo skies and back silhouettes
stark and crisp
juxtapose the humidity,
pressed beneath onyx feathers.
Wars in my chest, pressing
hard and manic under my ribs.
Like bees buzzing
between my lungs and skin.
His hair is thin.
His bones protrude.
His eyes are alive.
Black pools and shallow brown waters.
The machine whirs.
But his hands,
warm
right now
Bailey Blog 
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