to be lit up from within
vein by vein
Melita had long since started in on the drinks; a pleasant buzz circulating through her mind. There were no thoughts on the ever changing family dynamics, with one more added in via goddess pursuits. There were no notions of split off uncles. There were no moronic preludes to the possibilities of what might await her when she returned. Nothing, nothing, nothing at all but the wind in her face, the glass in her hand, and the ambiguous wake of other impulses.Which were to be met once the harmonica beats came flooring in, and her free hand began drumming along her table – first her fingers, catching the mellifluous flow and the familiar tune, and then her voice, loud and howling and incapable of carrying a god damned note to save her life. “Way, hay up she rises, way, hay up she rises, way, hay up she rises, earlye in the morning,” louder and louder, intending to catch others’ eyes (specifically
to be the sun
MELITA
