by Sparks In Shadow

Photo by boobook48 via Flickr

I see you, tender and waiting, shielded by a heart latched tight to abide business you can’t control, like a tiny, heavy door. My own guard braces against outside pressures of numbers and opinion, but a drizzle of anger seeps out at the iron seam. Yours has done that, too. Aren’t we funny?

Footsteps tiptoe around our doors; we scold them as if they belong to someone else. They wait for news like ghosts, recycling themselves with the letters and words and symbols that hang in the air like scents, those things that spur you, that make us write again.

The prompt was to do something with, involving, pertinent to “The Alphabet” – from Julia.