aside

can you see earth—
the burial plot
in my eyes

hazel moss
and erosion of
time worn thin

i prefer tulips
to flop
to the rose that’s erect, but

the tips of my fingers buzzed
over white-capped lust
and I realize,

this moment,
this fickle weather
is the loss of what was

never ‘us’

 


survival isn’t always living
but there are days when it is life.
© Grace Black

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