Photo by Francesco Ungaro on Pexels.com

The spirals of mystery in the midst of a fog.

Makes goosebumps crawl down my skin like a soft-handed man.

Clawing his way through my obstacles until sweat and fog are the same.

Unravel me in this timeless moment,

before the mist leaves us wanting.

I’ll meet you at the swamp, and there, we will find our mud.

Wading through every foot of the slump, creatures brushing our legs,

but we care not. Because the other side brings a sweet release.

The fog is yearning. It wraps me up til every inch of my skin not covered in swamp is wet

with envy.

I can bare the harsh vapor of this world no longer.

Press your lips to mine and give me sweet air.

From your lungs to mine.

Let me take it from you and I shall one day, return it in good faith.

We will share it like the last fruitful words from the trees.

And trees I know, because they told me so.

They speak to me in all of the their brown glory, shaking their leaves all around me.

The fog, it comes for them too. So now, we share in their sorrow as we sink into this swampy

abyss.

For the trees, rooted in their resting place, know that when this mist comes upon, their last

stand is literally just that.

But no matter.

You are here with me, and I with you, my soft-handed glory.

Sink into this love we are making and trust each stroke of my hair.

Roll around wet with your body pressed against mine, and when it is done,

this swamp will clear,

and we shall stand on top of clear waters…

Photo by Dariusz Grosa on Pexels.com

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