Scintillas and Spiracles

My mouth is a desert, a wasteland brought by droughts, exuding traces of your sorcery. Fog seeps between my teeth, as if tombstones in a cinematic horror story. My tongue scrapes my throat, the underside of my cheeks, the roof of my mouth.

Sitting on your palms were your instruments; a small box and a silver sheet. They were your portable movie projectors, flashing avant-garde flash fiction and surreal ten-second films on repeat. At times they burst with colours and unending patterns. It would be the mirage in this picturesque desert scene.

It was as if my limbs unhinged themselves that they start flapping and thrashing everywhere. Rainbows were tattooed beneath my eyelids, or maybe my eyes turned to prism crystals. Overhead, the sun threatened to burn my nape. Our backs were warm. I wouldn't say a word as you proceeded on your tap tap tap tap...