Poetry Writing

the lowercase collection—winter

it isn’t cold enough to think of you yet.
not enough chill to wipe away the innocent blush
from my cheeks as memory and guilt combine,
taking the shape of your eyes.

maybe i’m romanticizing again.
maybe it’s my medication losing its hold
as your face becomes brighter in the
very back screen of my skull.

innocent red. the color of my cheeks
and the color of your fingertips when you
brushed against my leg when we were seventeen.
the most delicate of flutters

on my leg and in my heart.

it’s still fluttering.

 

 

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