That summer love burned us until our skin became tranquilized.
We were ready to receive.
None of us cared about the danger of the thousand apples from which we bit.
Oh, poetry was too good to be read.
We tasted it and ate it with silver spoons.
All filtrations of the mind and senses hid in small apple bites and scented flowers.
By dusk we exhausted everything with our breath.
The children’s voices vanished into the dark.
The doubt of too much spilled between us like ashes from a broken urn.
featured image: Separisa; Shutterstock; [link]
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)