The Friday morning decided to be wispy.

I don’t know why I used the word wispy…
it seemed more soothing, more fitting than “lovely”.

Wispy arouses an imagery of feathers, floating contently across the room,
a haemorrhaging scent of vanilla and cinnamon in the air –
an untranslated sense of mystery.

The night before, we took a nose dive and swam in the deep end –
in each other’s scent and mood
confusion and sadness
and euphoria.

It is written all over our face –
all over the warm molecular bumps of our body.
We sang euphoria, and we consumed euphoria.
We spoke in euphoric tongues,
and we spat euphoria.

All my cells flayed open,
stinging with your love.

Our visions and senses were temporarily translated in collisions
in a tranquil investigation of each other.

The fire is still in my hair –
I am now a plump and ripening peach – a fearful peach in euphoria

We had hand-stitched ourselves
the full moon kept us awake all night as we let the tides go as they please –

but the Friday morning didn’t know that.

The Friday had just begun.

and so it opened its wispy eyes
and inhaled euphoria.