29.

Posted on by mfordwriter

I think of you soaked in a past, emerging like perfume gifting the air

I think of the wonder of the what to come, as I wander lost words, soft in embrace

I think of you still; as you leave me behind,

as I battle against the rose tinted garden of then.

And she isn’t her, but a place and a time, when I wasn’t so aware of what I’d never regain.

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Published by mfordwriter

Creative Writer from Birmingham, England. Making my way through the (sub) concious (free) form of finding (losing) my voice. Brackets not included, All writing isn't my own. Ideas aren't owned. Art isn't about what the artist intended.