Below the surface

under the skin

 

she ceased putting words together to frame him, because his expansive fire doesn‘t reach her sandfilled heart no more. Not even a spark of inspiration although coated in bright worry and sorrow strokes her now. She got used to all the pinching, pushing – but not to the flames. Still, agile like water, she fluidly reshapes and reforms, creates space for the sharp edges before she bursts into drops and crashes away in waves. She sickers past roots and metals into the deep earth, where nothing can enlighten her soul, but the moon.

xxj
[maybe the wood is all that connects us. the anger we hold for one another. firmly grounded in our hearts.]

 

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