A History of Us
My lover tells me stories;
painted on my lips with his,
sketched on skin by hands,
in a language only we
have ever known.
They will be lost to time
when our bodies become dust,
but our bones will whisper
them to each other,
where they lay in the earth.
And in one hundred years
and more, the trees that grow
in the ground above
will carry our love
on their leaves.
Copyright © A.M. Demotte | Year Posted 2021
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