I sailed skylines on a scrap of silk
until I lost my fizz. My sparkle.
He called it carbonation.
He found me with the bees; head
in hand, I was slumped with woe.
I called this my crash landing.
He filled an empty mason jar
with eleven Zs from the buzzing
harvest. Unweaving web
from forest shade, he mended
the way I flew. Call it Kizz, or
call it Rize. Our horizons blurred.
Previously published in Prick of the Spindle. Click here.