The Tingling

It still tingles at my finger tips

some days when the weather is beautiful.

The tingling,

as if you are about to hold my hand,

as if our fingers are about to entwine.

And when I realise that you are gone,

forever.

I am left alone,

forever.

I stand here

brewing your memories.

Smiling,

Grieving;

both at once.

How can I just forget?

And I wonder,

does the oyster forget about his lost pearl?

 

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2 thoughts on “The Tingling

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