I am looking at the paperback visage of the face of The Prophet.
I am warm and getting low. The thrill of a chill starts its arc at the top of my spine to glide down one arm while stomping down the other. Fred Astaire. Fred Stanford.
His eyes are open just enough to let me know that love is there and love can be had behind almond brown starlites. And his lips look moist. I would kiss him to until the bottom of his face was arid extra dry. That’s when I know I’m in love; I want to remake an oasis into a desert.
But nothing knows what its like to live if it has been inside himself or been to a desert land where feet have no form and the sky is a naked mistress in distress being beat by the sun 75 days in a row.