She picks up her cell phone, dials 911 and requests a song for her sweet, adorable, dead love. Her perfume smells like that of a minuscule meadow in the winter.
And so her eyes flickered for a moment, the seizure takes the body out of control, she falls to her wicked death.
And speaks no more.

Sitting on a shore, watching the sun go to sleep.
Her hand in mine, more than I could ever believe.

• McRickson Mar 19, 5:58pm Modern music is more deadly than narcotics; you have killed me. from the knoll where the rose dies, cinn mcrickson