In a painting
She paints me a memory
Of the milky moon in June
Where the summer days lead to midnight
And the dandelion wine stains her lips dark red while kissing mine
I fall into her once more, and she is everything and everywhere.
I find her again in autumn where the leaves are falling, and the days are short
And the cold brisk wind brings closure to a love that once burned red, as strong as her lipstick
she wore often
I miss her dearly, and now it is winter, and the coldness tears me apart
But soon spring will come, and I will write her a letter of how lonely all the seasons have been
Until she returns next summer, in a painting, because that is where she always has been.
Posted Sep 24, 2022, 6:26 PM UTC
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