Wordle #120


Our breath gathers in silence,

Gravity igniting in the grooves

We thread and yield like fish in water.

I salt my landscapes with shadows

With loaves of rye bread

And rows of weathered shoes.

My senses exchange themselves

The tilt of your head smells

Of raspberry jam and clover.

We send each other letters

Thick with perfume and plans

For a life we have never known.