cynthia.

a bat flies across us
between our long-standing
staring contest.

the clouds veil her
approaching her like waves
pulling in and out the tides.
its a fragile mist on her face
a cold whisper of dew and rain,
she blinks.

the breeze helps me afloat
ascending gracefully on north wind,
she meets me with her
sterling finger, and i roll laughing on her metacarpals.
my clothes and skin covered in sugary
powder and sweet dust,
i apply it on my eyes.

i arrive on her craters, still rolling,
and i lie down.
just me and my mother,
cynthia
and me, wisteria.

pearly rivulet curls
stream down her face
and her elven ears
pointed sharp.
it’s always so different
to see her up close,
and everyday i do try.
her face is never the same
every time though,
she can have lustrous
happy eyes the first evening,
but she can have the brightest
amber glow glaring greatly
on me, on the city during the next, maybe she is mad.
an immaterial anger
extending beyond.

but still there is beauty
on argent cynthia, happy or not.