The continuance of you feels ceaseless, almost as a recurring exchange of souls passing by in a darkened corridor; blind to the meaning of it, unable to reach out and grasp you, yet herein you exist just the same. Reveal yourself, oh vacant shadow, and allow me the bliss of your gaze once more, for…
On the winds off to the West sent by courier on 42-cent postage travel a mere two-thousand words. Tapping fingers on the crumb-coated counter-top, she waits, sure only that it had to be said. Could seven years prove anything more than what has since been left undone? With each stroke of the keys, one night,…
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