Pancakes

You sent me a text message from the beach but all that poured out of the end of my phone was sand.  It landed on the table in a sad pile which I sieved and searched through but there were no clues.  You had taken up with a dreamer who had difficulty controlling his bones and walked butterflies and pigeons in the hills.  I texted you back a flat, wordy text asking how you were and where you were.  The next one I got from you was a mess of tiny driftwood and after that you stank out my pockets with seaweed.  I didn’t hear from you for a good long while.  You had never been that good at keeping in touch, especially not since you had taken up with the dreamer who had difficulty controlling his bones and walked butterflies and pigeons in the hills.  Eventually another message came through from you, which made me pleased.  It seemed that you had ended up somewhere else, somewhere quite wonderful as from my phone dropped two small, round, pinecone-and-blueberry pancakes.

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