The dancing faerie lights of the forest fireflies draw you down into the deep woods, carrying you across the divide between cold reality and comforting dream. The giggling pixies graft gossamer wings of smoke to your back, grab your wrists in their smiling grip and lift you, swirling, swimming, to join them in the air.
Before dawn they’ll take you home and tuck you into the tangled web of your sheets, and in the morning you’ll wake with an odd ache in your tendons, a bruise you can’t recall ever getting and that haunting, hurtful, wistful feeling that something has been lost.
Before dawn they’ll take you home and tuck you into the tangled web of your sheets, and in the morning you’ll wake with an odd ache in your tendons, a bruise you can’t recall ever getting and that haunting, hurtful, wistful feeling that something has been lost.
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