by Larina Warnock

I’ve heard there are no secrets in small towns,
but there are places along the creek where tender moments
keep old minds young, tempt souls backward in time
to lie on the bank and count the silence between heartbeats.
Love that was never quite love lingers in the spaces between
quartz and slate, the same space where the current whispers away
promises that never passed young lips, except in kisses
offered before skipping stones across time.

Image by Charlotte Collins via Unsplash