Maybe she was Russian black or maybe my imagination, but she moved like snow on peppermint, slow and tasty and much to my amazement, she melted lines upon my face and I, stepping light on all the right stones making magic with these old bones melted into her.
With several leaps into frustration my destination marker hardly changed at all, though I had run through cracking panes of glass where reflections would not let me pass I saw the end.
She blew a kiss and disappeared I flew into a rage and feared that I would die, but angels do not work that way they reappear another day, and so I wait, with pepperminted tongue in cheek I shall be silent and not seek another one.
Russian black or red or white snow and peppermint at night is my desire. I light the fire and wait for her to come and dine with me and share my appetite.