Transference is inevitable.
A flower that grows in between the dead cold moss.
A small hope cradled as a warm stone.
A kindness born through some invocation,
some attempt to make sense of our place in this world.
Its a prayer, a distance seen in your eyes,
A doubt formed in the mind,
by the brief rejection of a potential lover.

We are the esculent,
made ready to be consumed by the love of another.
We are a breath, held on by the hands of a good friend.
A flame stoked,
Gently in the night.
We are, we are,
weight (significant).