It’s been awhile since I’ve visited Sunday Photo Fiction. It’s nice to be back. Thank you, Alistair!

© Eric Wicklund

Holding a Lifetime

In those days the air was combustible, ions churning, light fragmenting into auroras that blazed through night’s boundless sky, laughter sweet, gentle like soft blossom petals falling.

Now I dream of your touch, fingertips caressing in some careless certainty of endless days, sultry sun-swathed afternoons, nights of wine and passion. The memory of dancing, bodies melding, hands clasped, eyes closed, hearing the melody, feeling your heartbeat. Lips, a butterfly dance of trembling kisses.

The music has abandoned me. Fingertips stretching, my wrinkled hand splays, gnarled, outward then fists. I exist, infinitely alone, ears yearning for one more whispery tune.

end

Sascha Darlington 2/2/2018