I am cold without you, my love. The kind of cold that curls Ice-water through my veins, until those frozen rivers burst. Shatter. Tear me open. I am waiting for the fire in your eyes. You melted me into a spring. We can burn it all away. Start again, with ashes. Plant apples to nourish,
Do not make me go home. Home is where the heart is, but that heart is too heavy to hold. Full of worries, weighed down with must-do and should-have and so much what-if, draped in thick expectation and all-powerful upheld reputation. Home is where the cares are, though I care not for them.
The Turning Tide Relishing the sunlight caressing your skin, the heat soaking down to your bones, try wriggling yourself a groove in the pebbles and shells worn smooth by endless buffeting. Let sea spray lightly kiss your lips, sea salt scrunch your hair, then close your eyes matching your breathing to the