Cinq à sept

It can simply be

The pressure of the air,

A subtle atmospheric adjustment,

A shifting front

Of cooler clouds

Now moving in,

An errant wind,

Perhaps an eye defrosting,

Humid bounce of short and curly red,

A heated phrase half-thought through

Never truly meant or felt

Caught fire only by an accident

Of proximity,

Unknown uncovered

Stress that slowly grew

The darkest crack

Across the ivory pristine eggshell,

The other passionate and innocent of cause,

Effect.

I learned so long ago.

You paste it back together.

It will never hold as strong

Or last forever.

- 11/4/25