Unlikely, she thought, that,
other than him, anyone had
stroked her forehead in years,
singing low to anchor her
in dreams, like novels,
where she found herself
immersed in a fog-shrouded,
high-school swimming pool
that reminded her of the power
she once savored, when someone
believed she was the most
beautiful girl in the world.
Now, viewing the past from
her butterfly-firm footing,
how they overwhelm her,
those less elegant memories.
How they obscure the present,
those early games, and
the lingering songs her mother
would sing, sitting at her bedside,
until she relaxed and slipped
away, like water.
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: PxHere
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