Monday, November 6, 2017
The pause before speaking.
The silent blank pages slipped between dense, thatched prose.
The lull, the exclamation.
To sate, not fill.
Even the endpapers.
Even the subject line.
You've worked the tinker right out of it.
The sweat wiped away by the same deft hands that penned.
That swept aloft to me alone, exclusive, dear.
To my eyes, the brain that soaks it in.
Smooth skin, blown glass.
Or as they say, like butter.