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You sat on the bed and there was

Lavender.
Her name really was Lavender, parents were the nomadic type. This bohemian lifestyle
Was naturally to her. It was breathing.

You gave her a nickname. At first only you called her it, but then most did.

She was something special, with long hair
colored honey. Freckles whispering against her skin like fresh, air dried sheets on the bed you shared.

She stood up,
Shirt thin,
Floating down to just above the knee. Her skin was soft,

you knew that her tongue tasted like cinnamon

It was in her morning coffee.

Without saying a word, she picked up something from the top of the dresser.
lit a match and the smell of sulfur covered the stale smoke.

As she blew, her red painted lips twisted to the left like they always did.
That one was a spirit
It could never be captured in a sentence.
It left the scent of rose water as Lavender started to pace around the room.

You took your time looking up.

Watching as her fingers traced over the collection

sacred objects that she refused to let go of,
because they were a product of past. A sweet nostalgia came to her mind
when she felt them,
so she said.

And how did she feel when she touched you? Those fingers dancing over your skin. Palms getting damp
Like too many promises and electricity on door knobs.

It wouldn't break the spell of the I love you whispered between humid, slipping bodies bound in sleek fabrics.
One after another words meaninglessly slid into the darkness.