(How are we doing, folks? Since nobody wonders how we’re all doing, I thought I’d give it a shot.)
She slept longer than usual
Under the mattress of fiction;
The crinkles on her face, in a duel
With the light, forged an eerie kin.
Kin with the certain and the vague;
A novel scene on a canvas well aged.
She was gone, yet her motion in lag
Still drew songs of love well-fazed.
~amirflame©
aflameofword 