A recipe to recapture the smell of lilacs in a pitchblack room
Lightning falls like butter against the sodden tree line,
sky is molten titanium and we stir maple leafs into the
kitchen cauldron attempting to reinvent the room as it was;
a pitch black waltz before the thunder boiled overhead, before
smoke filled the chimney, before the crickets howled over the
hearth. Before the kiss, mud trodden into the foyer, or the silent
hallway, before the candelabra dripped wax onto our fingertips
and scared us into a permanent deformation.

We touch;
reinvent the revolution.