It's definitely smoke, and it's coming thick and heavy down my throat and out through silver black tears. That's when I decided "what's the worst that could happen?" and slide under the crimson glass waves of lava. The last thing I expected to find were the birds. They were all nesting in cozy little houses which I guess makes sense, with their nice wooden perches and sunflower seeds. But you really can't stay like that forever. The perches are only so long, and those wings are antique! So they march out one by one as the hour hits, rising on the smoke on thunderstorm feathers. I'm here dusting magma shores, fishing for an armful of letters you'd tried to burn before I could read. And yeah, the ink is running, swirling in thick columns of smoke because it always comes back to that. Embers catching the breeze, sailing free of a dying flame. You forget to capitalize your letters occasionally, and you sometimes miss a period or two, which makes for a lot of run on sentences. They're okay though, because you wrote them and I hear your voice behind every syllable of every word. It's nice.
