His breathing, stopped, he found it. Four dimensionally, he opened it.
Its fragility stunned his eyes with convoluted memory tears, while his new inhalations syphoned the colours from the pages – colours that would help him navigate the convolutions –
that’s when he noticed some words were underlined.She had underlined them! But the ones left untouched – he smiled – they were the portal.
when I was walking around trying to avoid the mosquitoes and you strummed your guitar to the rhythm of my steps and the syncopated clouds confused you and we said it was the best thing you had ever written?
They always loved the way they both loved waterfalls.
As if it weren’t enough to drive through that scenery on the way, with its exhilarating verdancy, the serpentine paths unmarked, illuminated by their shared love of, well, their shared love.
But now, his muscles twitched.
Her emotions repelled down, down from the cliff of his hardened inner life. Over the cascade of his own unformulations. Starting that landslide, you know, the inward one. The one that implodes stars…
leaving burn marks on the pavement. The ones that stranger, whistling at the end of the week, steps over.
He’s wishing those darn kids would quit playing with fireworks again! But, youhave to admit,it IS a great night for a campfire…
Confused by the vapid voices of renewal that languided out of the new year cake, they did used to jump, she recalled,
she thought it was time to do something.
Something had to be done with this pile of the unsaid.
She searched for that wisdom file, the one they’d all spilt wine on at the new year’s eve party. How they laughed. Such a good night.
She wondered if she should rake through those coals over there. Some were still smoldering.
Melancholied by the cold she had a better idea.
As she cast the pile onto her knitting needles, she was struck by how colourful it was…