Mush.

He gives her hope.

Misplaced or wild, he gives her hope.

Love falls apart in wisps among whispers.

Torn asunder by thoughtless slices from careless tongues and unfeeling touches.

In the subconscious search for something not jaded she found fragmented truths and lyrics that meant more than the words people say.

But he gives her hope.

He could be a nice thought. He could be the hours leading up to midnight–the dress, the shoes, the spell. He could be the wonderful illusion right before the fruit turns to sand.

But he gives her hope even if 12 is where both arrows always land.

The kind of hope that drifts through dreams–

the kind that causes a pen to find paper to make it real.

The kind of hope on which a dreamer’s heart feeds.

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