so says the straw hat

The red lights of the walkway send messages across the wrinkled bedsheet river. A morse code of night secrets. Texas summer sits so heavy and still, like being held in the mouth of a stranger. It is warm enough to swim, quiet enough to whisper, late enough for reckless. You spelled w-a-n-t with the headlights off, your manners holding space between. My mouth grew restless, my teeth grew arms and legs, went looking for diamonds and pearls. The river didn't notice, continued downstream in silence, carried the memory of being licked by the lights.

Desperation snuck in with the bees. I woke up ugly every day for a year, venomous tongue. My shoulders were icebergs of 'don't touch.' There was no map for when our bed became an ocean so we used our pillows for flotation devices. Slept holding our breath. The bees were making a hive in your chest so we dreamed of sawmills and neon. We never knew, but every time your mouth opened the buzz was deafening.

I haven't done much writing for a long long time. I am following the prompts listed on 30/30 WXW website. I have already missed days. I am not going to worry about any of the rules. They are not really rules. This may be applicable to all of life. 1/30 August was a charged balloon. A thundercloud slung low knees buckling the valley, tongue panting wet with rain. August was stripped down, an empty valence shell. The bedsheets were freshly lonesome, though touch had vanished long before the body. I bought new sheets. I left the window open. Scuffed my boots on the dance floor searching for a faster wind. August was waiting for the hurricane's hangover to play orchestral greens and purples across a bulging Texas sky. I was flint and kerosene. Matchstick ready. One shot of whiskey and a dance floor. The wind up under my skirt going 70 past the yellow dashes and hot asphalt kissing skinned knees. White arms are midnight river snakes. Sex like murder. I wake up white s