THESE PRISMATIC DAYS (MICHAEL RAGGI)
The morning frost places an ache into the stitches across my chest. A faint taste of vanilla on my lips should be proof that this had been dreamt to life. I turn towards the window to see snow flakes falling in a curious shade of purple. Either the Sun is up, or our neighborhood chemical refinery has caught fire causing the iodine reserves to sublimate, tinting the sky a lovely shade of mauve. She lay beside me uncovered and curled at the foot of the bed. In the polychrome light her bare thighs are the whitest they've ever been. I would've wrapped my body around hers if I thought her skin would be the slightest bit warm. Nestled behind her ear is my last cigarette. It sits dormant; tucked away as a delicate promise of malignancy and release. I think I'll take it back, though I'm sure that the slightest touch will animate her suspended form backlit by the industrial haze. My tongue grazes the tip of her ear lobe as I grasp it between my lips and motion to light it. She tastes like a vanilla bean wrapped in the petals of an orchid flower. The smoke only adds to the glow that is steadily pulsing from the sky outside as I dangle my head from the faux tempurpedic mattress and stare at the cat I had forgotten to feed. Then with every unsurprised nerve in my nude body I feel her cold flesh press into my own. Her chin settles firmly against my sternum and the space just below her navel presses on my unerect penis. “I knew you wouldn't give me the last one” she whispered staring into the cinders of my Turkish Silver. “You're too pretty to smoke” I said exhaling into the space occupied by her open mouth. “I'm too pretty for a lot of things, but this is not one of them” she said just before kissing me and stealing back the cigarette. Her bare navel was no longer innocent and unassuming. She felt the change in our static posture and giggled at my expense. Rising with a grace and delicacy that made me hate the muscles under her skin, she hopped down to the floor and looked out the window. I watched her reflection dictate “It's too cold and colorful to go out today. Feed your fucking cat. We're going back to bed.” Laying prostrate I knew that I'd make one thousand toxic snow angels if I could leave for but one minute and find here here when I return. In the calico haze she found her way back to the headboard. So I filled the cat's bowl with a seal flesh pet food derivative then returned to the warmth of my bed. There I lay. Under our chemical stars between the heavenly and earthly sun.