autumn nights and smiling stars, the leaves are murmuring secrets as summer retreats to the corners of our memories. it is almost nice in the way that your voice almost plateaus, in the way that raw almonds are almost poisonous, in the way that we are almost touching. almost, the word of dreams and false hope. you almost say something nice, but recall your voice at the last second and we sit in silence some more. I almost point out a bird on the branch, but then I remember there aren’t supposed to be birds here. saw a dove get murdered today, you say. I shrug.
time blooms like baby’s breath and shivers like the california poppy in the spring breeze.
I reach out to you and you take a dozen steps back. we wait and wait, but I stay my hand, so who is to blame for these stagnant waters?
for @avolitorial and their february love prompts
