Her hair rose and fell from her head like waves in sunset, on fire with twilight's colors, the autumn hues of gold and raw sienna. Each brush against his face, fingers of flame, burning in his memory a night as warm as it was cold and what rose would fall like a locomotive approaching, picking up speed, louder, faster, pistons howling in steam. Like that it was. Rails they rode in the way of fate, in the way that one believed this and only this was destined, in the way one positioned themselves as the center of experience, the axis of the universe. This one time, known only later, would it be like this.
6 comments:
The first part of this reminds me of favourite chapter, Curves, the detail is exquisite, the imagery majestic, like waves in sunset, on fire with twilights colors, the autumn hues of gold and raw sienna. Each brush against his face, fingers of flame, so vibrant and thrilling (kindling, inflaming), it is a though every strand has been painted through those glorious, alluring descriptions, to imagine a head of hair reminiscent of all of those things is not easy, but to know that you saw these colours, made these comparisons, is spine-tingling, the artist's eye, the poet's soul, I'm awed at this moment by the loveliness of this writing, pausing.
Dear Sweetest, if writing were hard manual labor, your comments are the hot claw-footed tub waiting my arrival. :-)
With very think and lush white cotton terry cloth towels draped over the side. :-D
This turns me inside out. Your words are nothing short of magical.
Athena, thanks for the very, very, kind words. Always appreciated. :-)
My god, this is gorgeous...
Just gorgeous...
S. your comment is making me blush and smile. I think I needed both before I tuck my tight and taut glutes between the sheets. :-D
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