Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Blankets

The lights.

The lights.

My eyes are so open,

and I’m stone cold sober.

Staring at blankets that belong to the boys we lost,

losing my mind as I begin to forget your voice,

and the sight of your smile.

London is so lively outside,

and I’m crying in the arms of your brothers,

who are strangers to your mother.

Your mother didn’t show up,

so I took her place and placed a rose inside your cold hands.

When I get back to the house,

my wardrobe stays black,

flowers find their way inside every crack of a frozen, former home.

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