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).