I left you words underneath your mat
where you used to keep our keys
where autumn is coming in softly this year,
gently laying summer to rest beneath our feet.
⠀
I'm reaching up from the pockets
of your blue jeans to you, growing like
seed, hoping that if anything I won't be
pennies scattered at the bottom
of a defunct well—wished upon then forgotten
until even the water spits out my name
and goes to be with the sun instead.
⠀
Close me up like a starfish left on the beach,
baked while they marvel at my beauty.
Close me up then sing me to sleep.
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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