There in the distance. Where the earth tears open the sky. On the horizon. Your silhouette. A stark black shape against the dying ocher light. My hands lifts to wave to you. But you’re already gone. And twilight comes quickly.
That’s all I’ve got at the moment. Snatches of words. Like bits of broken breads on an unravelling string. Not enough to make sense of. Not enough to weave with. But there you go. Sometimes the words come in great gushing, beautiful streams. Sometimes they don’t.
So I’ll just lurk around and soak up the words of other people. Until my own come again.