|
{jericho} susan fowler where to start oh yes, your hands - that dance, restless, to the rhythm of your thoughts, cautiously draping each rounded 'o' in red literary ribbons. is it strange that i long to follow your pen? it isn't out of mere curiosity, no - more of a search for the unknown mythological beautiful, the salvation springing from fountain pens, clothed in dripping black ink. you aren't like the girls and boys enshrined in shiny dollar-store paper topped with velvet bows and cheap golden tinsel - no, you are much more. is it strange that i mourn losing my only friend? the gods played a clever, cruel trick on us, love: the sidewalk troubadour - no more, no less - i played the mistress, you played the wife. i am not a watercolor, i lamented. i do not wash away. but it doesn't start there. no, it doesn't start there. |
