Up to the light, the crystal reflected infants of the sun. It weaved through her fragile fingertips and onto her pale face. “This is all we are,” she laughed. Barley covered her body and I loved watching her sink into the Earth. The way her naked flesh embedded into the gritty and dry field, the way her hair wielded to the movement of the wind, the way her soft-spoken voice reverberated off each piece of wheat and reached the ears of a thousand insects.
We were insects. She used to tell me that late at night on her rooftop when we let the moon swallow our soul and when the stars became our passion. I let coffee drip down my chin and hug the entirety of my torso. She could never cease smiling and my curiosity boiled over for this beautiful creature. I could see the perfect hues of God crash upon her in pure dynasty (it was the moon, she was the moon, we were the moon). It was the unending creation of life that brought us here. She held the crystal up that night too and we watched as the glowing moon danced his babies onto our faces. We are the relics. There is no where else your feet should stand. Right here, right here is where you should be, she whispered to the world.
My unbroken sobs could feel the loose, uncertain soil in the barley field while her strawberry lips kissed each seed, telling no one in particular about the mirror of the crystal.