Sunday Whirl — #761

The road shifted beneath me, quiet as a dream turning strange.

A runner of memory kept drifting through my mind,soft at first—then sharp as something prickled beneath the skin.

The world felt oddly glassy, too still, like silence holding its breath.

I carried a small fright at the base of my neck, where old shadows sometimes gather, twisted into shapes they no longer own.

Yet somehow—through every sharp pinch, through every bend in the road,life remained.

Warm as potatoes on a kitchen table, ordinary, grounding.

And I was still here.

With love, coffee, poetry, and stardust,

— Maggie The Afterlove Voice 💫

If you want a reading, send me an email:

Afterlove-Voice@hotmail.com