A Foxglove Reverie

It's how a finger tremors on the trigger;
I try to forget,
but I'll always remember.

Spellbound in Spring,
April became less of a curse.

A reverie of my first love:
roaming through foxgloves,
your olive skin shimmers
under the northwest sunlight.

Do you not feel
this dark dichotomy?

You were terrified by tomorrow
while I buried skeletons
of a petrified past.

You told me
to slow down
and breathe,
but you couldn't perceive
the ghosts in my periphery.

Twelve promises
sowed what we could
never reap,
two strangers shivered
in the same bed
we used to sleep.

Sawyer S.


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