In little flutters and a series of gentle teases, the suppressed emotions bubble, threatening to disturb the surface of forced nonchalance.

The kite cut loose tumbles as freely as it soared now that the air is still.

The pristine white of newly fallen snow now soiled and sullied.

It used to be that I write better with a broken heart. Now it seems even that little comfort has been taken away from me. Maybe I need to be intoxicated and broken-hearted. I shall try again tonight.

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