Waking Dream

So she returned yesterday. Long tresses of African hair danced off her morena skin. With a lithe grace, sovereign and honeyed, she glided past the baroque statues of the ancient Pelourinho, a silver whispering dance. As the streets divided at the top of the hill, so to followed her lips, a beaming nervous smile that pacified its destination. Stepping from his perch, he locked hearts with her, his hands opening in embrace, as if to loosen the fast rhythm that drummed out of his chest. They giggled at one another, like children discovering a new and exciting curiosity. Their hands moved—feelers in a dark that were sedated by distance and time. Now together, in a new light, they closed, grabbed a new chapter and started writing. Their lips came forward and it fell away, sold in the silence of a kiss, delicate and everlasting.