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Your memory still finds me,
even as decades fall between us;
long, orange hair that feels like love
frames your speckled cheeks and chin.
We share my sandwich at school,
for you have no lunch to eat;
never a lunch, but always hungry.
One day you stay at home.
You are sick...
still sick...
still sick all summer.
You are my first love.
I know it from the loss I still feel
after sixty years.
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| Writing Prompt |
Write a love poem. It can be humorous, romantic or spiritual.
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He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not
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Bill Schott
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Bill Schott
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