Post #115

Inbox (1) / Back when the words were real: a frost to break a bough in half, a wind to peel off walls — a kiss to make a dead heart catch a beat, surprised, a kiss to make a city catch the plague and never notice, nor regret, a kiss to make you cry, evaporate and fall to Earth as rain. Each sentence hissed and sputtered like a tear in boiling oil when only steppe was plain, when clarity could spoil a lifetime of nuance. Those times we danced and swirled through like a night, too short to type, too singular to sleep, too full of tongue to bite. @verse by MR