I’m stymied by your crepitus. Your embouchure’s divine. If you don’t have your own tune, would you harmonize with mine? Your tonality is breathtaking, your rhythm right on beat. Your syncopation’s perfect. I fear I can’t compete. As we play, our joints keep time. My knees snap, crackle, pop. If our music were to lead to love, you’d have to be on top!
The prompt words today are crepitus, stymie, breathtaking and embouchure.
I once basked in your bonfire, and though no one quite remembers when we last caught fire, I’m warming fingers at your embers. Slow steady fires that survive, snoozing ‘neath the ashes have the same mysterious lure as winks obscured by lashes. Passion need not flame to warm the cockles of one’s heart. What was a wild onslaught at its very start may settle down to a warm glow or a steady smolder. Loving hand placed over hand —her head upon his shoulder.