She as water
Flows through my mind
Graceful and brash
As if a magician producing scarves
Voice full of temptation
Of willful willingness to be taken in hand
She the torrent
Awakes cells long dormant
Alive for the chance of her
Too public to sweep her into arms
To hold her close and make clear my affection
Skin taught in the yearning
A promise of tomorrows
fingers caress my lips in remembrance
Cool and warmth
Pressure pushing me to the memory
Night blossoms around
Tongue tingles with the taste of her
Arms remember the curve of back
The boop of nose
Swirl against arms
Lightning storm cascades
Yearning for the taste of her
Her eyes alight with stars
“Team A, you are a go. Decoy b is in the net,” squawks the walkie.
The men in the van and other vehicles look like unassuming middle aged nobodies. They blend in to most crowds in the western world like water slipping into a lake. Who notices a few more white guys?
They wear a variety of sweaters and cardigans, khakis and coats. Armed with silenced pistols and stun guns, they get out of their nondescript sedans. So disparate that they are almost identical. Someone watching would describe them moving in sync. Professionals.
By different routes, they filter into the mall. Their quarry will believe that the squad has been neutralized. They still believe that this group is run by a lone group of weirdos. And, to be fair, the breakers are monsters to a man. It’s unfortunate, but a necessary part of the network.
“They are heading to the second level. Eyes up, it looks like they have outrunners.”
The men act as if they are browsing. Asking clerks for sizing options. For color options. Arriving to the designated area before the target.
If their security is pointed outward, it should afford our ambush a few vital seconds of surprise.
The underboss should never have been seen by the girl. But, he was the only available agent in place when it all started going south. This is a fuck up and normally we would have cut him away but This group… This Darkling Spire has raided a couple of our lower lever houses. If we let them, they will burn down all we have built.
“1, 2, 5, 7, 4, 8,….”
“Does anyone have eyes on 3 or 6?”
“I see 3 sitting in the food court…”, the sound of suppressed gunfire cuts the walkie off.
Fuck. “Abort, Abort, abort.”
The sound of the lock on the van breaking spins me around. The splash of peach leaves me speechless as the voice of the target says, “Pel said I was going shopping. He always gets me the nicest things.”
I woke to a city of mists
Crumbling edifice and haunted winds
Slow erosion and echos
Minutes reverberate on
Built future breaks down
All falls away
to new paths
I woke to a city of ghosts
What will be
Unseen in the fading light
The buzzing empty of a too full cup
No room for words spilled out in lemon frosted sweet nor deep bitter coffee
Diaphanous ponder lips kissed through with the shattered dream of a storm looking for a friend
Deep sadness pulls deeper into a heart bottomed out
Her head on my shoulder
A memory pulling upward against the weight of the spin
mine in a way that makes surface tension hold all together
Quiver and waiting to burst
Hard to know what words to say
When I’d say them all
Liminal state of a collapsing star
Hand clasped in mine
And lips pressed softly to palm