permission for tears

Hyacinth garden

I smell the scent of wet wood.

It is spring and wetness rings between sunlit days and quick violent storms.

The next thing I desired was the kiss of moist air, her hot breath clings close to my neck, as warm as the afterglow does.

Her night air had a silvery-white shine, like platinum, and it was cool and moist, and thick with the scents of spring.

Dawn pricked our eyes.

Again, she experienced peace, just breathing, listening to the sounds of a stirring world as if she gives the permission for tears.

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