The sunshine on his neck was like the warmth of her breath. The sun played among the entangled locks of her hair - all gold and bronze and lustrous black,
He took her hand in his.
Tender. Fragile. A lotus stalk.
And ran his fingers over the back of her hand, tracing the pale blue filigree of veins that showed through the paleness of her skin.
Her eyes. Always half-dreamy. Lost somewhere in the dense foliage within herself. She wasn't smiling. Not surprized. Just dreamily waiting for each moment to drag itself into the past.
If only I could look into your past, he whispered. if your palm can hold hidden all the secrets of your future, it seems just logical that I could read your past here. Flowing timelessly through these blue rivers of your memories.
And the present? Her voice distant and dreamy.
The present? That's what we make every moment we live. That fragile line between two certainties. The fingertips of time. The touch of your hand. What we create that spills over the moment next to add to our past. Teardrops and icy glaciers which feed our rivers of memory.
Silent half-parted lips.
Half-dreamy eyes tracing the contours of some cloud.
A blue filigree.
And the warmth of sunshine on his neck.
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