We loved in the weeds
She and I
And not upon the stars
We supposed.
We groped corpses
And not bright flesh.
Our tracks
Were nothing more
Than doe prints
In late-winter snows.
We imagined our loving
Spiraling white
Brilliance.
But we were only embers
Becoming ash.
There is no good return
To regret.
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
In the Weeds
Posted by The Dashboard Poet at Wednesday, October 21, 2015
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