September Twenty Second

"Sara,"
He breathed, warm, into her ear.
A word- coursing. Coursing needles in a soft, thin walled tunnel (rip, rip, rip) of newly awoken anger and frustration.
Before then it was an impassive coldness, a sedate glassy-eyed circle. Can you please hurry up I want to get to bed alright the bedsheets are going to turn to fucking ice before you finish don't you realize it's winter for god sake get off of me before I push you off oh yeah I can't do that or you'll take it as a sign that I want on-top god then I'll never get to sleep.
"Sara,"
The needles shot, shattered glassy eyes and almost drowned them but a vision, not of the cubicle cube of living space lit faintly by sickly light of ever staring city, spitting city, scratching city but of dark, truly night swimming among leafy headed giantesses.
Sylvia breathed dirt and star dust, soaked in night and padded off into the forest. The tree, it was calling calling and the man with the moaning whistle could never take her here. And there it grew, seemed to even stretch higher as Sylvia looked upon it, gorging upon the life force of the earth to become the impossible peak Sylvia knew she must climb. Sandpaper bark, limbs on limbs on limbs, the concrete block wall surrounding their bed scratched her hands as she pushed against the blocks. Throwing him down she pushed her weight on him, and Sylvia smiled, wrapping her legs around the tree and scooting up higher, higher. The air was becoming desperately thin and her head felt sappy, dizzy but she was so close to the top- she could sense it. Leg aches, burning between them, they were there before they knew what happened and fhuuuu the wind sighed- Sylvia floated with it, down down down into the still thumping flesh.
The man slowly breathed out a long held breath and smiled.
"Sylvia,"