Give me a story that climbs rusted iron rungs.
Give me a story I can spread on my toast and coat with marmalade.
Give me a story that drifts on butterfly wings and settles for only one moment.
Give me a story in noises that rattle in my head and fall out of my ears.
Give me a story like a map of some part of myself I have never seen.
Give me a story that is spun in spider’s silk and whispers like glass.
Give me a story that sits in the earth and prickles but offers one sweet fruit.
Give me 12 stories, wrapped in florist paper, that wilt away with age.
Give me a “strike anywhere” story that will always breed a flame.
Give me a story that pickles in its salty brine.
Give me a story that sinks but leaves ripples where it falls.
Give me a story that drifts on the winds to bury its seed in the earth.
Give me a sweet story that dissolves in my tea.
Give me a story that rattles in my lungs.
Give me a story of our shadow selves who play and tangle on the wall.
Give me a story that grows on a trellis until it covers every inch.
Give me a story that is held in your hands, but that speaks for your heart as we say goodbye.
When evening stumbles into night I’ll have a story that marries rose and indigo into pale
patchwork skies. I’ll have a story written in pinpricks but hidden until night pulls the veil away.
I’ll have a story that burrows into every memory of the heart, and I’ll hold it softly by the hand.