In a dirty tavern at the edge of town, Passion had too much rum to drink. She set out on the heels of twilight, piggybacking on a passing muse. She stopped once to waltz with the village idiot, leaving a crumb trail of desire in her wake before she found an open window.
Love was curled up in the arms of solitude. Outside, thunder pranced around the garden seducing daffodils and chaperoning constellations who were beginning to gossip in pockets of the night.
Passion’s honey words drifted through the window, but Love made no move.
She was used to serenading Gods.