Author Information
Petrichor
It's not all that interesting, really.
Scent of cigarette smoke and fresh rain on pavement
tasting of it's overwhelming broth
A little voice in the back of my head—
("I'm so glad you're awake, my love.
I can't tell you how long I've waited.")
—whispers, "Mine."
A memory flashes in my mind's eye— A face, pale and smooth and perfect.
Wringing out my past until every last drop permeates and stains this sidewalk.
("Mine, mine, mine.")
You've worn out any welcome.
The memory shifts and distorts and grows dark, but before I fade away again, I hear one final echo.
"Welcome home, my beloved."
translated of dragging chains & rusted ram shackles and mossy stone clamoring
to reach out and feel even a specter of someone that could ever understand
me.
My soul's hearth
Burns with renewed purpose
once again
I too will fly higher, even just to watch our sun rise.
That excisive heat haze shadow will be mine
