Prose; Getting Lost

orange desert flower

I loved that, as soon as I walked in the time-honored door, profusely late, you were concerned that I’d gotten lost, in trouble, or something else.

Melt.  Kiss.

Mmmmm.  That’s the good stuff.  I’m going there and staying in that sterling feeling.  It’s a crack memory in my brain.  No one can take it away.  I keep a pile of those in a festive drawer for a rainy day.

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