Dew

And I spent some time reading in a bus, flying from one word to another and touching the soft and subtle skin of words. Deep textured brocade, embossed feelings, embroidered fragments of the past.
It’s a tricky dangerous dance with words and fears. What is the taste of deceit? It tastes like a cloudy autumn afternoon, with a palpable touch of tiredness, sadness and defeat.
People change. We’re strange creatures that go on changing minute by minute and hour by hour.
And then I felt stronger than ever, that I miss mornings. I miss mornings as much as I miss winter and snow. I miss the cold fresh air, its smell of blossoms and dew. I have never felt dew under my feet but I want so intensely to feel that cold warm sensation, to touch with my fingers the delicate film of light violet mist and let myself breathe in the raw light breaking through the last haze of night.

Photo: http://hwaairfan.files.wordpress.com/2010/04/morning-dew.jpg