#422 (protoplasmic promise)

Cackling beneath rusted skies,

you arranged the candles in

a pentagram.  The crickets were

telling jokes about misguided

jumps and I was longing for

the moments yet to come.

Was that our in between?

Those hours stolen with

two bottles of Merlot, until

the grass felt like the clouds above

our hot foreheads cooling off in

sweet summer breezes. That day

the universe imploded and the

touch of your skin felt like

a protoplasmic promise.

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