Dove Silhouettes
She lingers in the air like cigarette smoke, or the scent of rain before it falls. Or something fainter still, perhaps nostalgia itself, its source somewhere at the far end of memory.
I hold onto the feeling of connection with just enough force not to crush it or let it slip away. I allow my thoughts to slow until they reach a brief stillness: a warmth, a glow, lake water between ripples reflecting the light of stars that, even when in view, are forever out of reach.
dust motes
in the fading light
open urn