They greet like dried leaves rustling through the windows of an abandoned mansion where paintings of forgotten faces adorn walls of incomplete erosion. Two sets of eyes lock, and lips curl lovingly by chance The flitting smiles pause in respect for the passing glance. But just as dried leaves wouldn’t turn green no matter how much it pours, The wrinkles of old souls do not smoothen from love tales of yore.
Articles, Poetry and Short Stories by Proma Ray.