by Elizabeth Rose
I guess it's always the same; impatient to see each other, stinging with the mere suggestion or apparition of their scent, never mind the taste of skin. A yearn that succumbs to any resemblance or imagining, alert as thirsting ivy when the raindrops fall. The oaths and devotions, shell-shocked by past lover's mistakes ´til their mold is climbed into and we all become clay. Hardening into dust in shared abodes where the earth cracks widen the closer you sit and the more time is spent together. Con and fusion. I just guess it's just always the same.
Elizabeth Rose is a UK writer and artist living in the south of Spain.