Image by R.A.D. Stainforth
I remember
gentle pressure of your lips.
Friction, spark, fire:
you ignite,
I burn.
But that’s past.
Turns out the brass
ring
was only smoke.
A stale future
permeates my clothes and hair.
Ashes,ashes,we all fall down.
Check out more responses to the picture by R.A.D. Stainforth at The Mag weekly, online writing prompt provided by Tess Kincaid.
