Hair freshly washed,
drying slowly among the moon and stars. Settle into the faint smell of dad’s cologne, the scent of Sundays. Three books, nestled in the crisp crinkle of the floral comforter. The soft crack of the spine reveals a heart among a flourish of red ink. Glossy pages, reflecting tiny words and pastel pictures, the edges slipping between fingertips. Mom’s soft voice, interspersed with words rolling slowly off a young tongue. A hushing sound of the slow collapse as eyelashes are beckoned downward by the lavender color of dreams. (inspired by "Delicate Details")
1 Comment
I absolutely love this one, especially the phrases "the edges slipping between fingertips" and "the lavender color of dreams." It made me picture that time when we talked for like 3 hours straight in your room!
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