I remember that Saturday so clearly,
I had been singing my heart out,
It was the only time I felt free,
And you had stood at the back quietly,
It was the first time you'd left the house
In months,
We had both been fighting
Different battles,
But we both had the same wounds.
I remember the Sundays
And the Mondays
And the Wednesdays
And the Thursdays
That have followed since then
Just as clearly too,
Everything blurs into one
With you,
And yet I remember everything.
g.c.g
YOU ARE READING
The blossom of a poet
PoetryWords fall softly like the petals from a blossom tree, drifting slowly onto the paper, creating poetry like the spring, beautiful and light, but just like the seasons, the poetry changes, the autumn comes and the words become heavy, falling quickly...
