The pastor is praying and the woman in the pew in front of me has an oxygen tank.

She’s breathing in and out and it’s soothing, but also jarring, because you don’t realize how much you need oxygen until you stop being able to breathe.

And I reckon the same can be said about love…

(Over at Prodigal Magazine today friends; follow me THERE? But first, link up your #imperfectprose, below!) 

Hi friends. These are the Imperfect Prose rules:
1. Link up a piece of poetry, prose or art that is somehow redemptive.
2. Copy/paste the #ImperfectProse button code in the right-hand column so others can follow you here.
3. Choose at least one other post to read and comment on, before leaving!

Thank you!

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