the smoke on the mirrors: glacial frostings of belated exhalations of an acheronian heart. you blew on the glass, causing a frosted spot of warm breath to form on the frigid glass that was shockingly cold to touch, when you tried to finger paint a doodle in that warm, fuzzy spot.
and then it began to fade away, like wisps of light shredding away, enervating into the night that was as oppresive as an obisidian monolith. oppressive because you felt entrapped. entrapped in the most antediliuvian of matters... matters, of course, close to the heart.
you dream.
you were dreaming.
you dreamed.
but when it all stopped, your heart reamed, fixated with the wanderlust of a cursed, restless soul. just what could have rolled you away from all this, like a miniature maelstrom of fallen leaves in the circular wind. up, up, and away, gone.
and you wondered what would it take, for it, to take you away, leaving the weakening light of day to eat up the burnt sienna pages of a cryptic diary that was written in braille. cryptic entries; but unlocked, with the simplest, but the most liberating of all senses: touch, with the tracing of a finger, in strong, corporeal strokes like a calligrapher.
and unlike the misty smoke on the glass that would be disturbed in an all-too-ephemeral existence even with touch, this, alternative touch, would ensure the lasting of the warm breaths, and the cure, for the acheronian heart that has exhaled way too late.
touch, to read.