The spring sun falling through the window,
on a late winter morning,
hits the same every year.
Like a friend I forgot I could love spilling
into an embrace of remembered warmth.
The trees will blink free from their comas
of mourning. I wonder
if they sometimes grieve
the miscarriage of a particular litter of leaves,
more than the countless others?
I used to try and keep the bubbles in my bath
as pets when I was really little,
I guess it’s a similar thing.
Aww.. The comparison in the last lines! That’s so beautiful.
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Eyyy thank you, he he wasn’t sure if it worked or not :oP
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Made more than perfect sense to me. It’s such a wonderful metaphor…
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Beautiful x
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He he thank you! :o) x
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