Ingredient for a Perfect Kiss.

Everytime I kissed you, squirrels acrobat in the attic, ghost children at play, voices whisper from floorboards and air vents. I wake fully as rain begins, listen to it hissing in the slick leaves of tulip poplars, a shiny, wind-tied bouquet, tiny wet hands knocking at the window asking to come in. Thunder breaks, crescendo to a ceiling fan’s whir, its spin disturbing the cling of air, cooling skin. Stretching, groaning, I move downstairs, open the front door—tyres splash over puddled asphalt, afterstorm scents swirl in the breeze, ribboned leaves flurry and eddy, postbox nips at my fingers with tin teeth. Sounds blend into cords, bind me here, far from the murmurs of ancestors in dreams.

– Anonymous

The moon is blue.

Under a nostalgic moon, I found myself reminiscing days of present past. A time not too distant, I grasped at faint memories of love,  friends, foes and food. The latter was brought on by constant hunger pangs pervading the night, screwing up my diet.

On friends and foes, I found no reason why these memories surfaced. Twisting a storm in a chipped teacup, I pondered why a world this large we seek nothing but a small chance to fall in love.

If love is not the sum of my every day, it’s what I add to every day, or I don’t know love. I’ve been telling myself a story, a page every other day, and weep for the beauty of the hope we show when we try.

To try.

To learn.

To love again.