I haven’t changed the bedsheets
In the seven days since you left
The scent of your skin
Still lingers
Like ocean spray
On my hair
In the folds of the cloth remain
Memories of our entwined
limbs, dreams, stories
The shadows of your empty words
The nostalgia of your eyes
Nothing lasts forever
So we never made promises
We always knew
We will never be
And started with Goodbyes
A tiny tendril escapes From the yellow -brown stalk Life salvaged from nearly-crumbling-into-the-soil I smile triumphant I think of my mother And her fifty-three pots Of lilies, orchids, roses Even a
You make words Like silver drops In the crevices of an ocean And poems of old Cinnamon mingled honey And in the folds Of your eyes Your dreams float And I watch them. Are we dancing? Because it feels
The fire roared Consuming what was once tree And the sap of life drained from the wood made the fire crackle. Everything turned to ashes But the warmth touched our bones does that mean I’ve a bit of t