I begin today thinking about past loves,

words falling from the lips of men,

how inevitable it was for my hair to turn grey in the smoldering of yesterday’s ashes 

falling from once pink lips, pooling amongst wine goblets full of salt

There are many who promise to walk through fire

only one who ever truly does

grapes fall amongst demitasse nettles as his singed cuff brushes chaff out of my hair 

I bathe in white clover blossoms,

bird song ripples through my comb until my heart learns to giggle 

and ashes ripen into alabaster 


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