Holding Shroud

Spring was about how we opened. Sliding doors and midnight rain. Our hands entwined and wisdom in the shooting of slight glances. In the humid doom, I watch you fall asleep with my lips against your lips. And fate is not a cake. Drinking in your new world is alive with me, as we wander this museum of violins and chance. Ashes drift down from our campfire and little frog voices lift us above the early dew. It’s not random, but just a little bit more than nothing, in this pitching bucket of stars.