Even as time passes like silk against raw skin,
it’s hard not to remember the way you held me
…underwater...when we were meant to swim.
What paragraphs grew between us
like trees that forgot me among rings.
Am I a past participle?
Or the silent, kinetic touch of braille?
Regret reaches out like an oil spill,
coating everything in rose-colored pearl.
Only more time will tell,
whispered among the hallow dreams
from the unanswered clamor
distance now quiets between us.
About the Creator
R.C. Taylor
I write to invoke, to process, to honor, to resurrect, and—sometimes—to grieve but, above all, I write to be free.
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