With nothing but a body aged and solid like a Grecian coffer, in place of something less empty than Bacchus’s goblet, I come to you naked in my intention. But that moment on the carpet, our veins filled with silvered rain. It doesn’t matter if the pile is grey or sparse, like the hair on my head; the faded flowers are the warp and weft of who we really are. And I, like a suckering fish, cling to you symbiotically, when rapids overwhelm. For you are that leap of faith, offered to no other.
©Talia Hardy 2014