From the air

At some point, she thinks, we will tire of stories.  Of metaphors.  Of the stand-in.  When is the thing ever just the thing?  My heart an organ. Relentless as small children.  A boomerang.  Gliding, almost effortlessly, from my hand, sent out to scour for a trace of you.  A footprint, a broken twig, the tiniest piece of thread. Four days.  I have waited four days. The way armies wait for supplies and reinforcements.  Watchful.  I am watchful.  Where is the dove with the olive branch? Land.

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