The old, warty toad waddled on creaking, spindly legs over to his friend. Tishbit was quite blind yet had managed…
Then she just comes out with it.
Ever talk to your soul?
Haha he says, and averts his eyes.
Huh. She turns away to leave and then throws this comment over her shoulder. Neglect is death by a thousand cuts.
The heart is disturbingly grudging about dislodging offences that, built over time like a fortress, strives like a searing poker to protect the mind, will and emotions of the soul by disabling pain and feeling, yet all the while hardening the heart into coal.
A gaze that turned chance into a tryst wrapped in sanctity, cloaking all inhibitions in a perfect imperfection and magic like fairy dust writing each moment and the present straining like wild horses to merge with an unwritten future…