My skin. Your skin. Draped. Textured. Telling the

story of time. Character. Moments. Things

unknown and pieces we understand with

a simple glance. Life may be a soul, eyes

may be a window, but skin is the wall,

a structure built to protect all of the

wonder that lies beneath. The outermost

layer that says our thoughts, shows our feelings,

and holds our heartfelt truths near. What do you

perceive when you look at my skin? Wrinkles,

the body of tales I’ve lived, the things you

have yet to learn. Deep grooves smooth like silk, lines

of my history. Oh darling, I plead,

let the surface of your being ring true.

Recharge when you feel the prick of the grass

between each of your toes. When the warmth of

the sunlight hits your face, so potent it

heats your entire soul. When the sound of the

waves crash behind you and the salt of the

water cleanses your skin. When the crisp wind

gives you breath without even inhaling

and the colored trees overtake your eyes.

Moments. Nature moments. Earth, fire, water, air.

Let them alleviate you. Nurture you.

Soften the bad. Make the world less jaded.

Nature’s remedies at our fingertips.

Power in simplicity. Yet…we rip

her apart with the same bodies she heals.

Sheets rustled, as an exhaustive silence

filled the room. “I hate the word passion,” she

lamented, “It’s so cliche.” “What would you

prefer?” he asked? “Lust?” She pondered, taking

a hard drag from her cigarette. “I find

that my best work is in metaphors” she

laughed, a cheeky smirk. “It’s like a pile of

coals in the depths of your toes. A slow heat,

burning, the finale of fire, scalding

embers bubbling with purpose, ready to

overflow.” “So the hottest part of a

fire is at the end?” he asked. “What does that

mean?” “It means that the fire burns bright early

on, but the peak? That’s the culmination.