Loveless, I turned to my feathers, plucking all silver slivers of what was once a shelter, a home to warm a flame, turned roofless and dead, bleeding and cold; to write the blue sands with some stories about a fire and how it came to, its munificence, grandeur, felicity, components of a lover I've forged from my deepest misery. Author's note: the photo is from wallpaperflare.com and I can't find the artist. This one's written in a whim. Worry not. I'll write more meaningful opuses next time.