A resurrection from the depths of old notes; I don’t recall where exactly this came from. – LY.
The command was on the tip of her tongue, a dam that refused to allow fantasies to whet her desires. A blockage clogged with the songs of her sorrow buried but a metre beneath her heart.
A ball-headed speck of crimson danced on her lips, a lingering shadow of how deep she’d been cut; how tightly she’d been squeezed of all the love her soul could give.
Precisely what they didn’t do; eyelids contracted and sealed without a hint of condensation sitting beneath them. They’d all been cried – the salty residues blown by winds of comfort.
‘Flow,’ she pleaded. ‘Move on, oh stagnant soul.’
© LaYinka Sanni, November 2011.