Our kitchen was oaken, golden honey-brown and it glistened. Sun clung and sprang off the clean shines of aluminum appliances, like dew. The windows have split cross panes, they’re rectangular, and built in knotted wooden frames. They open at full arm’s breadth, and the gleam is soft off the floorboards. It’s that floor for Prince sons and Queen daughters to run around on. A richness of shimmering green blades on the hillsides give off brisk shivers of flashing light. The twinkling white-capped sea below writhes in tumultuous aggression. A living cobalt thrive, next to burnt native shores.
I sighed my eyes as it steeped me. Like old Maritime psychic remedies, and a slow piano tapered off, somewhere.
And you. The proud heat of a brilliant woman, an Heiress of some kind. I see the millimetres in your soft dark cheek against the light, and I think, “home”.
My lips are always on you, in our days together. And I lean back against the fridge, looking cool I guess.
I take you in…
Her eyes ran with the children, and I was a crinkled wrapper in her hand. In her rich laughter, like sweetest molten gold. I don’t have a choice. Not in loving her,
and it brings me so, so much peace - that I am powerless, to it.
Anyone can see.