the fuzzy sourness of interrupted sleep
the slow-fat of a sleepy breakfast
the sick-sweetness at the back of the throat, sugar substitute wafting through the air
the blue-burning salt of protective fury
the bitter teeth after pale coffee
the acid uncertainty
the soft-kissing cleanse of dusting-down snow
the sweet-sour of fear, fluttering at the back of the throat and pushing open eyes as the jeep twists out of clenched hands
the dead dull nothing of bad news
the gentle-releasing tear-sweet of the dance
the indescribable taste of hope, rising from where it ever breathes behind the ribcage
What happened with the Jeep?
ReplyDeleteI just fishtailed while trying to stop at a red light . . . but four-wheel drive fixed everything. And no one was coming either, so it all panned out.
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