The light hung in an embrace of cloud.
He watched the squirrel.
She laughed with the leaves.
The valley swallowed half sentences.
Jokes would never be finished.
Love songs became questions.
When he spoke, it wasn’t about the spaceship or a myriad colors of skin he’d tasted. He thought about the soft bristles of his toothbrush and wished she would brush her tongue along his teeth when they kissed. What he actually asked was, “Have you been to Switzerland?”
She knew his thoughts as she knew a storm was coming, like a faint ache from an injury that hadn’t yet happened. She felt the cold rush of air from the Alps without ever leaving his arms. She had an irresistible urge to lick his smile.
Shapes of clouds became muddled, fading into sky so it became hard to determine their edges. She watched their hands intertwine and realized she could only feel warmth, and without looking, couldn’t tell where one began or ended. She wondered if this was the beginning of madness.
Projections of grand emotion echoed in private places. There was an ever-present threat of avalanche. Phantom objectifications rested in their gaze. Ship-to-ground sparks made a delightful ricochet. They weren’t sure if they spoke or if message-bearing supersonic waves were being generated by their touch.
Love became the same as a laugh.
Stories would change with the sun.
The river gave life to a dream.
She said she liked licorice.
He admitted envying plastic.
The light escaped to cover them modestly.
The Word Rummager 
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