Poem
montreal writes
It had been a favourite topic of discussion at dinner parties throughout the years.
The last time I struck a match, I lit the sky on fire. Up, up, up galloped the pillows of smoke, stacked on top of each other like scorched marshmallows.
Poems
Sarah bit her lip, not out of pleasure but out of the need to steady herself so she did not dart for the door.
Marisol scrolls through the appointment list and marks the scheduled patients who have checked in.
Poem
