The sun-scorched milk swirls like the sands of time: bubbling and changing, dancing among the microscopic grains of glass.
I tiptoe upon each piece, careful not to fall into the wrong color, stepping and twirling with the ever-changing bronze. My golden hair swooshes around, growing until it blends with the frothy milk.
The tans and browns continue to change into each other until another element is added, which glorifies each grain and magnifies its marvel. I stop, stunned by the sun’s reflection, and think of you. The swirls – golden and tawny – slip through my fingers, flowing flawlessly away.
Is that where you are? Floating beautifully away from me?