{Originally written in 2020.}
Ah, old friend, do you remember,
All of those nights we’d sit by the fire place?
Or all the nights of sitting,
Quietly in the woods?
They were quite grand times, I’d say.
But, of course no longer can we,
Do what we used to because you live somewhere else;
Old friend, after all of these years,
Of sitting alone in the woods—
Picturing you there with me,
I’ve come to accept,
That you live somewhere else;
That you live in a foggy graveyard—
In a tightly packed grave.
But as much as I love to visit,
I think it’s time for me to move on.
YOU ARE READING
Shiver
Poetryꜱʜɪᴠ·ᴇʀ /ˈꜱʜɪᴠƏʀ/ ᴠᴇʀʙ (ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ ᴏʀ ᴀɴɪᴍᴀʟ) ꜱʜᴀᴋᴇ ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛʟʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɴᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟʟᴀʙʟʏ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ʀᴇꜱᴜʟᴛ ᴏꜰ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴄᴏʟᴅ, ꜰʀɪɢʜᴛᴇɴᴇᴅ, ᴏʀ ᴇxᴄɪᴛᴇᴅ. -- Short stories and poetry that heavily revolve around grief, death, and mental illness.
