by Wendy Geal
How is it that
My husband doesn’t remember
Our first date
but you easily recall our
first conversation. The way my hair laid
across my shoulders.
The immediate electric spark
that never stopped igniting.
What flowers do I fancy?
Roses, they are so cliché.
I bet you knew that
they were lilies all along.
White and long and freshly cut
just as I used to be; almost alive.
Though I bet he’d recall exactly his first wedding
But he has never bought me flowers.
I hate to see them anymore.
I hate early recollections of our whirlwind romance.
I am only reminiscing with myself.
Posted on 09/07/2011
Copyright © 2020 Wendy Geal
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Joe Cramer on 09/07/11 at 07:52 PM|
... nicely done.....
|Posted by Mo Couts on 09/08/11 at 09:26 AM|
Painful to read, yet tells the story that so many women hold inside of them. Nicely done.
|Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 09/11/11 at 09:22 PM|
Not an easy read, but a damn good one.