The faintest orange

Ceaseless. I wander the streets in a small town between nations. Narrow pavements, and I roam lines until they turn into dog piss, leak across the road and mingle with the dripping of sinks from open windows.

This warm, soft orange always appears in the middle of the night, when I tilt my head and look up, I close my eyes. Something rather lingering in this position, captured famously by Klimt’s kiss.

With firm steps I creep around the dark alleys where black cats run from my shadow, the scent of honeysuckle strong enough to seduce me to a halt, and lemon balm invites to touch. By no means, I am a fickle creature with the senses, the light my guide through a cottage maze.

One would be certain to never call this a summer night in England but dusk in paradise.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.