• Shana Mirambeau

Untitled


Now, I say, I am home.

Come my love for our season is ripe.

Upon us is the night that once split becomes daylight.

The softness of touch is surreal.

It frightens the plague within me.

I dare not endure a walk down the isle dressed in white.

For the lines are too sharp, and one path is a lie.

But if it is us in the morning light, you sipping your coffee and I pouring a cup of tea, as the chirps are to day, let us gather the oranges and gallop down the stairs, hands clasped and fingers intertwined.

Let the city debre of cars and fractured side-walks be behind us.

Instead we walk through the shrub and into our own secret garden.


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