Resting in my hands
Dec. 12th, 2021 09:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
michaelboyBringing the palm of a hand to my face in winter, where the lingering scent of an everlasting history situates. Of course with such a span of time, it isn't at all possible or even logical but is rather the same as the way old black and white postcards carry the essence of those who penned them long ago and eagerly wrote the substance of their hearts beneath the postage.
They wore hats and spoke of the mill often while trains wound along the banks of the blackened river where we once lived.
They wore hats and spoke of the mill often while trains wound along the banks of the blackened river where we once lived.
