He forgot the strength held in the soft bosom of superstition,
and Saturdays that became cloudy without promise of
awakening to scrambled eggs

and kisses…

He became movement in the trees, his entire body
trembling as if she walked over his grave

again and again…

She was different, and everyone knew magic
was her air…

waiting with swollen lips and traces of love
that could have been…

Never grounded, thoughts always somewhere
between Now and Never…

and Forever…

It was always him,

her one and only love letter not yet opened…

a glistening silver heritage making love to
a silhouette of tears…

Lara Wilson

Lara Wilson

Editor at NY Literary Magazine
Lara holds a B.A. in Comparative Literature. She's a native New Yorker, an after-school English tutor, and a bookworm.
Lara loves photography and horseback riding.
Lara Wilson

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