You
I know this, even if no one else does. When the wind presses against my cheek, it isn't a new wind but a familiar one, one that I've felt if not a million times, atleast once. Remembering ruins everything, anyway. Those days when the lake house feels close, as if it's just beyond the trees, even when I know it isn't there, even when it can't be. Still, I hold on to what I hold on to, guarding it, because I'm afraid someone will try to tell me it was never real, that it didn't sound the way it sounded, or bloom the way it bloomed. But the pink tongues of Camellias whispered day-in and day-out, and you were there to hear it with me. The world doesn't come to an end. It only falls apart, and falls apart. In many small, bright crumbs.
@mossyfrets
I’m very tempted to illustrate this one too. There is something about your writing that is so evocative for me. Perhaps because you are remembering something so dear. The aching breaks through somehow, the plaintive missing.
@CalmRosebud I'd love to see your illustration. I really loved how exactly you've captured my poem visually. I write a lot of poems that are related to nature and mundane life