by Bree Barton
I remember the night the sky wept, when raindrops struck velvet chords on windowpanes and I hummed a wordless melody into your tangled curls. We clasped each other in that naked room, your head between my breasts as you bathed my nipples in your tears. That was the night I knew I loved you. I held you against cotton sheets soaked in the mingle of our sweat, breathing shadows of forever into your ear while muted sunlight unmasked the smudges on each bare wall. But when you reached for me by morning, blissful eyes ablaze, I froze; fear, all bruised and blackened, charred my soul to ice. And so it vanished, my love for you, suspended in the air for one perfect moment between warm whispers and soft illusions, lingering for one last kiss before dissolving like the salt on your cheek.
Bree Barton, true to her name, is a dedicated fan of both cheese and alliteration. She's also a recent college graduate who's having a hell of a time figuring out "real life." To help maintain her sanity, she's started a blog to chronicle her humorous (mis)adventures as a twentysomething. Not everything she writes is about dissolution; for a sample of her not-so-depressing work, check out Dante, Degreed.