When We Were Royals
Leaning against the warmth of old oak,
I recall your sun burnt skin that summer.
As I let my fingers linger on the side of the bench where you used to sit,
a memory - like noon day’s sun light, seeps into my senses.
A light wind ruffles my hair at the nape of my neck,
that same spot you liked to kiss.
You said we were royals as we scattered bread crumbs for our loyal subjects.
Where have those pigeons gone?
I lift my face to sky and close my eyes,
breathing in the scent of nearby roses;
suddenly something tickles my cheek! I open my eyes to see a butterfly,
its color that of your sun burnt skin.
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