Tis a sleepy language...

Hiya folks.  Ever have those moments before falling asleep where things just pop into your head and you NEED to write them down? I haven't had those for awhile, but since keeping a little notebook by my bedside, I produced a few things I find beautiful, and I'll share them with my audience of basically nobody.

"All that matters is who you are; 

everything else is consequence 

or circumstance."

I imagine it starts at the toes.  The footprints of the soldier march their way from the top of her foot to the ankle, leaving burning tracks behind him.  He stops to survey the mosquito bite at the joint and decides to keep going.  He squares his shoulders taking cautious steps up the side of the calf, stomping across the firm muscle with a dangerous chasm to either side two legs below him.  Her skin is smooth and smells like wildflowers.  The finger soldier marches on, continuing up to the knees that crack and bend.  The soldier becomes a hand for a moment and explores the back of the chasm, holding on with the thumb and drumming fingers in the curve of anatomy.  Then he's a soldier again strolling up the quadriceps and noting the indent created by a long piece of tissue under the skin.  The soldier's heart rate quickens.  He explores the strong muscle with gentle touch.  As he nears the hip, he slows to a crawl, hesitating at the crease where leg meets torso, testing her pulse briefly before moving on to the bony protrusion of her hip.  The soldier has gone too far.  He waits for his master to shift up her body to continue.  

She rolls onto her stomach and he settles on a dimple in her back.  The soldier becomes an ice skater and a mountain climber.  The blades of his skates send her into giggles and earthquakes and he laughs too, weaving through the mountain range of her spine.  Her shoulder blades like wings folded across her back. The shoulder dances between them a moment, kneading the ground soft.  The mountains shift again as the soldier arrives at a freckled shoulder.  She stares at the persistent soldier with wide green eyes.  His master smiles and follows the soldier's trail with his mouth.  When he arrives at the shoulder with the weary soldier, he continues on, marching up the chin, over the ear, buried in a forest of brown hair for a moment before traversing across her own Mount Rushmore brow.

Down the tip of her nose.

A lake in her eyes and a cave of her lips, gently sealed with the soldier's honorable breath.  A touch of warmth, an ignition of emotion.  Eyes fluter closed.  More soldiers dancing.  Frantically, Rushmores and soldiers rushing from shoulders.

At least that's how I imagine it.