Mint tasting breath

It was official, a new season began. On his beard, little drops of mint tasting breath gave their lives to chemical reactions, dedicated to transformation. Threads of his taste pulled themselves away from what she called a reversible reaction. The season had already come, so they needed a new state of mind, of being. Little drops of icy mint tasting heaven. One had no clue that the changes should surround every piece of mint tasting breath, and pull it to a different space, where the sunsets were not the same as they used to be, the smell of fresh crushed almonds was not the same as it used to be, where the sound of his pulmonary retractions and reactions over her ear was not the same as it used to be. A new coat was all that One needed. It hated go shopping, to many things and nothing that seemed real to it, to much life it could feel how the death smell landed right at the next corner. So it decided it should turn into a quitter. Little things have big ideas so they have always told, so now it was time to prove that that was not just a formality to escape with an intelligent sentence a person had said in an entire conversation. The intelligence is yet expected to come. One pushed itself away from that mint tasting cluster with a pain it felt only in its mind. It wasn’t real, as nothing it is. Just our own desires and milky ways built through lots of loans (of imagination, of feelings, of ideas). Our own thieves we are as One always used to say. In her fall she felt the grief of all those other changed threads of mint tasting breath. Not for its departure, yet for their settlement.