Matching haircuts

I have guzzled your honest words, imbibed on a primitive level and become greedy for your works. Ravenous for the next chapter, itching for a phrase to sate my parched soul. Terrified to read the next post for when I have read it back to front and front to back and touched every letter carefully I know it is over and I will hunger once more.

You said we became a handful of salt.
You have said many a thing.
Mentioned in passing, probably with no assumption it might stick in my mind, and a sincere grin spread between your ears that those angles I cannot see of mine, those are some you might want to linger upon. That’s what love is, you said.
Those hideous angles, the shadows cast and mouths lulling with lips parted during intermissions, between syllables and hands covering teeth where laughter seemingly explodes.

July;

you may find yourself but fallen, down some daunting chasm and discover there is a hand to hold in those depths you thought you might plummet through in endless solitude.

Or you may not.

For now we remain salt in one another’s palms. Ready and waiting, fingers curled in anticipation to be tossed over superstitious left shoulders. Grains of humanity bound within tiny sodium flakes. Flavours savoury sure to shift into sweet sensations. Metamorphosis of treacle kisses, strings of golden saliva trailing between the keen lips of lovers. Lovers who secretly tiptoe to meet between the solidity of the earth and the boundless grace of the heavens.

You and I, my love, we have romantic minds
Plans a plenty and sleepless nights ahead, for we know too well that the time we have promised is time borrowed and finite—
until, most certainly, we will meet once again.

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