Love letter # 695

There is no control; at most, precious little. Moments like this seem to emerge, whole, shining, from the greater whole. Now there is disruption. A smooth trajectory interrupted.

Yours was the merest incursion. The fraction it took. A breeze, rattling doors. New sounds in the house. This morning I woke with the thought, the half-dreamt ether of your approach.

Tonight, the air promises rain. It hovers in the near distance. I may just breath, and the storm shall arrive. As if by the murmur of circumstance.  

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