Annabelle


Soft skin, the fuzz of a sweet summer peach.
That makes it so much easier to forget you.

To forget the humid nights full of sunflowers,
the way your fingers glided over violin strings,
the exact color of the lips I used to kiss.

And I wonder;

is your silken hair still the same color as the flower?
do your delicate fingers still nimbly dance upon the strings?
are your lips still saying my name?

Maybe it wasn't as easy to forget you
as I had previously thought.

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