Chromophore Dear one, its a still humid night my hair clings to the back of my neck until an errant breeze momentarily cools my skin and I think of you propped in your netted bed, your carmine-tipped hands fluttering over a canvas or penning a letter of love to your man with green-gold eyes. Your pitted, scarred body wrought with pain but you offered yourself fully, unselfconciously and he saw only the strong woman you are, the steel that encases your moist beating heart that is his. Despite the ache of bone and muscle, your spirit moves light, color, space. … Continue reading Napowrimo 16/30: Chromophore