Webbings.

The dark rolls over the horizon like a cloud of smoke.

A hint of fuschia rises above the tree tops as the night shares its first kiss with the cool grass.

A streetlight, a lone temple has been lit, even before the sun started to retire. The sounds of bouncing balls and laughter form a medly with the chirping crickets and dying motors.

I’m one with this place.

It has decided to use me as a decoration; what I must look like to the passing strangers.

“How peculiar that boy looks upon the rooftop. His hand twirls while his head looks into peace.”

There is an open window, his origin.

Little do they know of this place.

I have shared this moment with only one; an arachnid whose tiger legs and hourglass upon its back protect her from touch, but yet we sit…together.

She weaves her web as I weave my words, both spilling pieces of ourselves in an effort to trap any who would come close.

It has taken her the entire dusk to complete, but that is how she works.

For in the night, she will wait while the stray bugs find their way into her net.

Maybe, I’ve become her mate, using the light of the day to build so my creation can have purpose.