Squip

It was…comfort.

In a word.

In an action.

In the still and silence.

The want,

not need,

To stay in some haze of warmth and faint, amber light.

Breaths in and out were at ease, shallow and slow,

Only occasionally deepening with some satisfied sigh.

And they spoke,

Evenly and with no hesitation.

Mumbles of themselves and others,

Little fragments of sour patch soul and candy apple thoughts.

Sweet and sometimes sour or bitter,

But with a unique aftertaste each time.

Cotton candy truths melted on their tongues,

Sticky sweet between interlaced fingers and minds.

And then there was nothing again

After breaks of inhales and exhales there came no words

Or thoughts

Or motions.

Stillness again.

And suddenly not still anymore.

An ocean of ideas and half-truths stirred by the silence into bold waves and strong winds.

The smell of sea salt fresh on their wet tongues,

The call of some distant ocean bird was just for them.

Currents of hurricanes spilled out of their mouths.

They carried ships of long forgotten and not yet learned colors,

Characters with storylines and conflicts,

Painting the sea skies red and orange and blue with potential.

They glowed with new colors,

Clicking teeth and smooth lips can’t move fast enough.

The silence dissipated.

Now, that.

That was… comfort.

In their words.

In their actions.

In the unrest and stirring minds of two.

Fresh Purple Poetry: Widget