tmbt: sliding up
Sliding up and slipping out. Of bed. Of movement. Of sweetness. Of grace. A fall, but not far, the sidewalks twisted barely listed in the yellow pages, you are almost gone. It is a funny moment when the stars seem to bounce light all the way to the street, when a smile from the 90’s seems to warm my bed, and a waft of that musky cheap too-popular-then cologne stops me in my well-shod, much-aged tracks.
I think I know how faces fall, how lines set in and postures stoop. I think I know where the beauty goes. Even the most beautiful things turn on their heels, fall silent, keep figure instead of fires burning. Even the eyes that well with something special and shining can beam wet with a wonder that slides. Slides up and slips out.
Image by David J. Nightingale with prints and more available at chromasia.