Picture Perfect Breeze The wind smelled like snow caught in the freeze of the frame leaves suspended on the uneasy silence of another afternoon wishing to tumble to the ground. She was wearing tap shoes without a recital to seek and the pitter-patter of the metal on the cold cement crawled from the taverns of the black and white. His voice was drowned out by the flapping of the flags as they curled around nothing, freezing his lips with the graceful stains of her blushing lip shade. And they appeared like music becoming something as it goes, wrapping arms around a still breeze. . .and even then it all made sense, to the photograph.
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©Denise Angela Celeste
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