A first nonsensical draft of something, just something, just words to get the day started like coffee. Without either I'm sluggish and my brain isn't the brain I want to be dealing with. My thoughts are old glue and stagnant puddles and melted butter left to congeal and tease fruit flies. Three thoughts this came from: the word "skirmish" as repeated on my tongue while brewing coffee, skirmish like scaramouch, like fandango. The sunbeam that has taken over my desk, mmmn, morning warmth. And a soft surrender, the good kind, like held wrists or falling eyelids.
A skirmish, a sunbeam, and a surrender. Grappling on the crest of the hill: eager paws, arse over tit, hands in the hair. She thinks that maybe she loves him and this could be it. Happiness. A giddy heart like sprawl of daisies, like a plastic tugboat in a summer puddle, like a promise folded between scented papers in the secret pocket at the side of her bag.
A skirmish, a sunbeam, and a surrender. Her shriek is a riot in the town of seagulls and when they kiss their gravities switch. They coo and capsize, down the hill, they tumble. Grass stains on her wrists like rope burns; grass in her hair. The bumblebees are sweating. When they bounce on the rocks, he kisses harder.
A skirmish, a sunbeam, and a surrender. You’re falling, girl, you’re head over heels, and at the bottom of the hill lie bruises. So, you pick yourself up by the scruff of your neck, shake your kittenish frame, and you carry the remains to where it’s shady, where you lay yourself down, where you sleep.