Boston

The Bacon Cat Legging Society

By Ellie HoovsPublished 2 years ago • 1 min read

His rough hands,

Caught the fuzz in my sweater.

His chapped lips,

Broke jokes, “don’t you love the weather.”

But it could have been 70,

As we laid there in the snow laughing.

He said, “I thought you loved London”

I said, “I’m not one for monarchy,

I’m more of a rebel”

Then I poured out my tea.

His beard scratched my cheek

As he snuggled in close,

Caressed my hair with his hands,

And whispered “Well, welcome home.”

Breathing life into the lost and broken. Writes to mend what fire couldn't destroy. Poetry stitched from ashes, longing, and stubborn hope.

My Poetry Collection DEMORTALIZING is out now!!!: https://a.co/d/5fqwmEb

Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also become a paid subscriber, letting them know you appreciate their work.