{Originally written in 2021.}
I wish I would have been able to remember the smell of the pine trees or the creaks of the wooden planks below my boots, or the dirt that those boots had wore.
But due to the many needs of day to day life, the memories had nearly fled, leaving the memories no more.
The memories of childhood had almost certainly gone—-leaving nothing along.
Well, except for the constant racing out to the school, which I’d always be facing north.
I chuckle, faintly.
Those times I remember, quaintly.
And I gaze upon the last dying ember, I whisper to myself, “I remember.”
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.
