Carbon

Promises left sitting out have gotten stale. Not fresh any longer, their taste only a memory of something savory. Moistened again by saline and sampled time and time again has left a sour taste. Slice by slice, each promise is ruined and yet the loaf remains. The twist tie lying in vain; the bag a wind sock. A cold shoulder is turned and the problem is allowed to mold.

Fire deep inside, refracted and cut, promise stirs under velvet. Hinged against satin and covered in love, old becomes new becomes old. Disposable months and sacrificed what was never owned. Renewed what has never been and burned down what will never be. Perpendicular jointed and palpitating, giving utterance to the promise. Never stale again the twist tie goes on the finger.