Your body moves in shadows. People can be dreams, too. Light does not travel uniformly across miles of haze. This is when I learned why they call that color midnight blue. Streaks of light dance on and off of you from a lighthouse in the sky. I wrap myself in a blanket of milk when you leave. Heading into the storm we conform to new positions we have never tried before. A warm condition of existence wrapped around my right thigh.
We are a flexible temporary. We disintegrate while accelerating.