I stare at this page,
milk white as the
blanketed ground
in winter’s staging.
Where are the syllables
to create
a mixture of magic?
I fear they have flown
to faraway places,
across desert dunes
and boundless oceans
and might not return
so that I may tell him
(again)
how irreplaceable he is.
Instead,
I’ll touch his lips
with mine
and steady myself
in the arms of a man
who is satisfied
with my simple existence.
Romantic musings from years ago for this Monday…
Wishing you a peaceful day.
Lauren xo