Skeletal fragments of coral and mollusks glued by calcite.
Limestone giving birth to grays, beige, and blue.
Your eyes as green as the grass on the dewy morning when slithering snakes were driven into the sea.
Tears on your cheeks. I wipe them with my palms.
The desire to rebuild your soul. I cannot stop it. I am like those women who think that their naked thighs and transparent negligées can fix a broken heart. In fact, I am worse than them. I think I can fix your soul.
I love you. Yet, my instincts are those of a simple worshiper of reality. There is no sanctity in them.
Oh, indulgence of the self, how ignorant we are.
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)
image: Sandratsky Dmitriy; Shutterstock; [link]