And Tomorrow Faded

He glanced into the canopy, leaves fluttering like moths around a lamp on a late summer night, and he sighed.

“What are you thinking,” she asked.

“That I hate how this day has to end, how the morning will come and we’ll have to go back.”

“But we’re here for now,” she said.

“Yes,” he said, “but still. …”

“Then don’t let tomorrow ruin tonight.”

He raised up on elbow. The moonlight flickering through the leaves reflected in her eyes, and he kissed her.

She traced his features with her fingertips, delicately, enticingly, and tomorrow faded, a ghost, a whisper, gone.


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