shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Ashley L. Love


Cold Introductions

And she sat under a tree near a frozen black lake, blowing pain into a fog, and painting nervous footprints in the snow. A single leaf named "always" hung from a branch. Always was worn, wrinkled but clinging to its roots. She fell back, wishing the fire in her heart could melt the frozen lake. A star named "hope" shined the brightest light through her glasses, into her brown eyes. Hope was beautiful but beyond reach. Numbness at her fingertips, a brisk wind named "serenity" visited her. Serenity was oil on canvas but unreliable. Sitting upright, breathing heavily, one tear began to fall but froze on her cheek. She buried her tear by the tree and walked until she disappeared.