Love does not cease even if and when it might grow cold or old, it lingers in the breast like a smoldering ember for a time and place when its Pace quickens back to flame. We wait for the flicker of a fire fly, cupped in our hands, that brief light so completely bright at night, dimmed as the day dawns, and we wait its return, this previous ember we clutched (but not too tightly) as e wile away the hours until it grows bright again, the ebb and flow of it, not nearly as regular as dawn or sunset, yet as potent when it rises again after a long slumber. I crave it still, even if the night takes too long to arrive, treasure the fire fly when its light becomes bright again
No comments:
Post a Comment