She smiles, and time forgets itself—
though years have sewn their silver seams.
When parting stirs, a mist will gather,
quiet at her lashes’ brink.
We do not speak of sorrow’s touch,
For a single word might fracture the dream.
Her jade whispers in the breeze,
Its scent still lingering inside of me.
The warmth she holds seeps through the skin,
like springtime rooted deep within.
One touch, and all the world’s noise fades,
falling quiet beneath her hand.
Page created on 4/28/2025 10:49:20 PM
Last edited 4/30/2025 5:44:54 PM
