Sometimes, I write poems.
Saturday, January 02, 2010
After the break, when she said it’s over
he found himself often among the trees
surrounding Pink Lake. But he was never
alone. Two boots, two legs, but never a
breath he took, without her.
It was the green needles, piercing him.
Smell is the sense that most reminds.
But he did not think this as he walked,
just breathed, in and out. Knowing –
do not go home just yet.
c. Ciprianowords, Inc. 2010
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