Check your sights. If you have the shot, take the shot or take your finger off the trigger and throw me a liferaft.
Take a walk in the small hours. Take a drive to that clearing. Take a match from your coat, stroke, and shield from the wind. Burn your box of letters. A blizzard of embers follows you home - wind your windows up.
But the hills were tinder-dry and soon caught. You took my hand, untied the moorings and we went rowing out together on a misty lake. We bowed our heads and sang the only hymn we could remember and then prayed the flames would die. Wood dry dust on our hands.
I'm a horse, trapped in a triangle of motorway roads and I cannot relate to anyone.
If these fences were gone I still wouldn't run away.
Now you're blaming the terminal's corroded green tops for when our story wouldn't arc at all, and I'm ploughing two unhappy furrows either way. Don't stop hovering - my bird of prey.
The night falls and covers you like the coldest shawl you ever knew, but it's beautiful!
Embroidered with stars!
I'll hide in a cave until the fire and snow have gone away. And the manual you're looking for is safe in a drawer. Take it out. Spread it on the floor.