I wrote you a letter
with all that I mean.
Ripped in half, torn
in a solid square,
I licked the side and
folded it,
lighting the end and
inhaling.
As the words burnt away,
the blue ink (blue, my favourite...ours) burnt to smoke, charring to poisonous chemicals
and
going back into me. Words
where belong, we,
inside.
I can always picture what you're writing about.
ReplyDeleteI'm kind of envious of how you can make everything pop into my head as an image.
Envious? How strange.
ReplyDeleteThat's the same thought I always have whenever I read your writing.
But...thank-you. You have no idea how much that means to me coming from you.
:)