Echos of Night
By Rose Bence
Your voice is like poetry dripping with molasses. Like standing at the cusp of an Irish sea cliff, bungee cord crisscrossed about my waist. Do I tremble at the cold? The fear? Or is it something more… ?
Are you something more; more than the whispers of a passing breeze caressing me? Or will you slip away like a shadow as the sky turns pink, leaving me with only trembling cold and the whispering echos of the night?