Finding Innocence In the Laughter That Escapes Pillowcases.

Behind the sun, with a little bit of assuredness, I saw the shades of his smile swing toward the moon... and I cursed six p.m. In a voice that hid the memories of nineteen~ninety~two when I wore my shoes underneath the shadows of stars and in the feel of his lips when sixteen is innocent despite the cold exposure of skin. I wonder if he knows I whisper to him in his sleep, my promises slipping underneath the blanket he holds tight around him, and feathers escape pillowcases when I laugh, they tickle toes and dissolve the taste of fear as my tongue finds the outline of his lips after the sun falls down and his smile is apparent. I tidy myself up on Mondays, and wreck the idea of perfection with my curls... I wear jeans that smudge mountains across back pockets and imagine how the hem of my burgandy dress would fall across chilled creek splashed rocks, I wonder if I'd be able to stay pretty when my hands fall into mud and the wind attacks my cheeks... but he smiles, you see, when the sun falls... he smiles when I change my clothes... and he kisses me when my curls detest reality and Monday smirks at the idea of cleanliness as my imagination drowns hems and rips fabric. So I kick off my shoes with the idea that my toes can taste Tuesday and my feet can squash the memories of nineteen~ninety~two and revel in innocence as I discover the cold exposure of skin.