An artist's ribbon 3

the artist runs
her love sliding across a splintered floor toward dreams
filled with glasses of wine from wooden walls and eiderdown quilts. Palaces spin across the soul in words strewn across a reykjavik lake dancing with swans...midnight falling through the blue of his eyes and the faerielight of his hair. The artist gets lost in the wool of his coat...black without stars.. folding herself into the depths of woven cloth.
The ocean runs to meet his smile; the tires of his car silent as they spin in the sand toward a place where the artist waits for him. His hair falls golden in ribbons meeting the wind halfway without questions, without words; a silent declaration of love that never could lose.
Instead,
their love spirals across ancient lava fields and paints the truth with a gaze that never falters with arms that reach across the spaces of time, hurt and pain to find an equal footing in reflections of the night sky. Tears forgotton, she reaches for him, for a truth that found a place called home. Quickly, the words are written within pieces of the wind..fragments of love trailing his every step. The car door catches the wind..reflecting the lights of an old house...candles in every window..history finding the right word, the right memory, the right dream.
She remembers the night as she drove home to her studio..blue jeep fighting the wind...the engine stalled. She looked into the darkness near grindavik..a novel revealing itself as london slept with paris and reykjavik found copenhagen breathing. A single light burned from the remnants of a winter's storm. He sat in a burnished wood chair..a bottle of vodka on the table that was illuminated with circles of shadows and boundaries..a single bulb burning through the night. His hair fell golden across his brow as his glass poured from the bottle on the table. Was it truth in dream that the artist was seeing? Or was it like a spell caught in time? Her art fell from fluttered wings, and she never questioned the importance of the moment. She knew that she loved him. Stones cast a witch's spell, the incantation making the decision for them both.
His words fell from his gestures.The artist caught her breath and traced the patterns in his sweater...the pattern keys to his past. The engine regained its life. The light in the window of the old wooden house was extinguished and her life was never broken again. The artist felt her own breathing and felt her own blood coursing through her veins...a journey of life to the place where emotion made its home. The snow fell in symphonies, and she heard him breathe. She arrived at her studio, climbed the stairs, felt his soul within hers and knew she was home.