These Words Are Terrible... At Best

Forever searching for the right combination of words to construct the pyramids of goose bumps on your arms, and the back of your neck.

She says "There is magic in your words." I say "I don't believe in magic, so your analogy is spot on."

She picks me up. We hit up Main Street of a ghost town. Counting on each other, instead of counting sheep. Dodging sidewalks, stomping through back alleys. Exchanging an embrace, I only see her shoulder blades. They carve the shade of every single mood that runs through my veins.

Flash forward to an unmade bed. Each blade spins on the box fan, almost independently. Clearly airing out our dirty laundry.

I'd write the rest if it didn't begin with "regret." I'm waiting on another.

WizardOfCause