Cobalt blue

hardens against her back,

a pool of touch

collecting at the base

of her neck,

her thigh a ripe orchard.

*dawn breaks*

he lights a cigarette

from the blue flame of morning,

ruffles of feathers and sounds

brush the fragile new edges of the day.

She is waiting for something

in the quietest hours of sleep.

She is waiting for his hands

to come out of the darkness.

She is waiting

for a new goddess to worship:

The Goddess of Rain.

Long slender lines of water

collecting at the base of the

horizon.

Collecting into pools,

into rivers,

into the Oceans of Dreaming

which she bathes in,

in the last blue hour of evening

when sunlight softens to liquid honey,

when his hands finally find her and draw out

the primal forgotten language

that lives just beneath the skin

washing the shadows,

the darkened alleyways and dusty corridors.

Washing the world clean again.

She is waiting.