Your hand rests at the small of my back, your fingers brushing my skin like grasses caught in a warm breeze. The breeze becomes an arid gale, sweeping us over the desert, curtained by the moon so only lovers can see.

We traverse the perception of the night and return intact as the new light seeps in, but for the pale blossom of a saguaro and an eagle feather, so subtle, they do not touch.

Emily Florence