Sunday, 14 September 2014
A SUBJECTIVE MEMORY
A rose is a rose lying in the room fully dusted.
What I am to her speaks volume over others.
That hair came softly and touched, black brown black; smelt soft too.
Not distinctly clear, but pale nonetheless.
She shines brown eyes close to mine that kiss.
That first kiss, the very first, comes back awkward
but one to cherish.