Frosted glass



I remember once, 

counting the loops on fingertips, discovering

they were as infinite as the stars.

I remember falling asleep 

in lemon scented bedsheets

still hanging

on my mother’s line.

I remember asking,

what will become of me?


Beneath the aged summer sun

I remember,

lips press tightly where they shouldn’t be,

warmed by more than the heat of July,

rush of guilt mixed with desire,

caffled by smell of mown grass,

our own egos emaciated.

What becomes of me?


My hand, presses against the frozen pain

looking out at you looking in,

further away in grief

back turned

I wash my own lemon scented sheets

behind hooded eyes

of age.





2 responses to “Frosted glass

  1. Wonderful … moving … a beautiful build of words that creats pictures as clear as the frosted patterns in your glass. Loving it, Shan 🙂

  2. The first three lines hooked me and my seeking imagination, Shan. After that, I was enchanted by the images and emotion straight through. Lovely.

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