Crumble

It has been some time now. The wind ruffles still through the trees, the grass grows, and is mowed down, the sun rises and sets, the seasons come and go, wrinkles slowly creep onto our faces, our skin grows a little older, our smiles a little wrinklier, a little more gentle, our hugs a little more distant and fragile, our words further apart.

It happens. Time moves and moves and moves. Our days revolve around our clocks and our lives and our colleagues and our works and our futures, however distant they are from each other. Where once we used to know, we now no longer know what you are up to, whether you still play cards, whether you have given up tennis, whether you still take long walks, whether you still drink, and listen to music, and go to the beach, and play games, and listen, and talk, and go out to the shows. It is like this flour and water and egg on the table top, kneaded into lovely dough, dried up, crumbling between my fingers, unable to be patched back together.

Maybe more sugar, to make it sweeter; maybe more cinnamon, because I love the flavour; maybe more apples, for the juicy goodness; maybe more crumble.

Crumble

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