Olivia was mine until summer ended.
She woke me up on the last day of August,
and that would be the last day I ever saw her.
She graced my skin with gentle hands,
she told me I would like to be awake.
She tapped two fingers on my skin,
she called my name, as quiet as one could.
"Jude", she said, that summer day.
She left with summer that year,
or maybe I left with Autumn.
YOU ARE READING
Cups of Cold Brew
PoetryThis is a poetry collection about everything that is sweet and bitter. Heavily inspired by the glorious season called Autumn.
